The Winter Here
by Lynxgoddess
Summary: Sequel to Solid Ground. Buffy returns to New York to help Mac with a case he feels needs her 'special' touch. Some peoples lives will never be the same. Warning: graphic scenes and cursing.
1. Prologue: Waking the Demon

AN: This is the beginning of a sequel to Solid Ground, so you might be a little lost if you haven't at least briefly skimmed that story. Thanks to Claddagh for the review that really prompted me to get working on this and illyria13 for her inspiration. All mistakes are mine! All Mine!

AN2: Set post Season 2 for CSI: New York and BtVS. Torture and AU ahead!

Disclaimer: Do any of us own it? Not freaking likely.

Prologue – Waking the Demon:

The night had been busy. Almost a week ago, Buffy had ridden into Meridian, Mississippi, hoping for a quick slay so she could continue her trip to Denver. At least Denver resembled civilization; calling Meridian a town was being generous. Regardless, a week had gone by before she was in a position to consider moving on. It wasn't that the vamp she was after was particularly powerful or old, but he had a tenacity that Buffy hadn't seen since Spike. Only, instead of attacking her at every chance, the vampire had avoided her like the plague. Which, okay, she **was** a Slayer, that didn't mean he needed to run away like a sissy did it?

The first two evenings into her stay in town had seen an end to the small vampire population, including four minions of the vamp she was chasing. For the next few nights Buffy vented her frustrations on every demon she came across, making sure to leave one or two alive to spread the news of the reason a Slayer was here. Normally, there she would have kept an eye out for some nonviolent demons, besides not wanting to kill something that didn't need it; peaceful demons were her best sources of information. But there were none. Apparently even the good bogeymen thought this place was too boring for words.

Just as the sun had set on the fifth day, a timid knock came from the door of her cheap and crusty motel room. _Honestly, I've been to hells that were nicer than this; has anyone in this state heard of hygiene?_ The noise startled Buffy from her criticisms. _Showtime._ She crossed the room and opened the door, not bothering to check the peephole; her senses had already told her what was on the other side. Standing there, looking as sheepish as possible for a demon that looked like the offspring of Bigfoot and the thing from Jeepers Creepers. (A movie supposedly based on a true story that, after it came out, had Buffy driving all over the back highways in Poho County looking for the flying monster, wanting to prove to Lorne that it was **too** real!) Needless to say, it wasn't doing a very good job. Still, it wasn't here to kill her, otherwise why the hell would it knock?

Cujo had finally gathered its courage and smiled at her. If Buffy had been anyone but who she was, the sight of all those three inch long sharp teeth might have frightened her. Reality being what it was, she patiently waited for her visitor to get on with it.

"Slayer, I have come this eve at the behest of my kind to negotiate a cease in the hostilities between us."

Although the words were distorted by the demon's teeth, rasped and creepy sounding, Buffy understood just fine. Leaning against the door way, she considered its request for a moment.

"Why would I do that? Your kind has been feeding on and killing humans, not to mention causing large amounts of property damage. I've been thinking about extending my time here. Who knows, in a few months, I might have completely wiped out the demon population. That would be a nice gold star to place on my resume, don't you think?"

The demon winced at the idea of the Slayer staying in town for months. Things had been great before she'd come along, and now most demons just wanted to get through this visit alive and mostly intact.

"It has come to our attention that you search for a specific demon, a vampire by called Herbert."

Taking a moment to wrinkle his snout at the shame brought to all demons by such a name, Byn'vth, as he was known to his tribe, went on.

"I know where he is."

The statement hung in the air between them, each knowing that this would only end one way: blood and dust. Who would suffer this fate was there was to determine.

"I could make you tell me."

The flat, emotionless tone matched the cold look that stole over Buffy's youthful face. She was every inch a Slayer in that moment, ruthless and unstoppable in pursuit of her prey. A different change overcame the demon; his smiled stretched even wider across his face, lips pulling back to revel ever more teeth.

"And I could lie."

So there they were demon and Slayer, murderer and killer, destruction and decimation. Both strong and powerful in their own right, both with a goal to accomplish, both wanting to see the other beaten down and defeated, two more pawns in a battle as old as the world itself. The warriors faced their opponent on a field of blades and judgment, nodding in respect at what they saw.

"The one you seek has fled into the woods outside town."

The small concession by the demon allowed some of the tension to recede from the atmosphere. Instead of the manic battle-lust, a feeling of anticipation was growing between both parties.

"There are a lot of woods around here. It would take a long time for me to search them all."

A snort that was more a growl than anything escaped the demon. He was glad the Slayer had seen the game right away; he had no patience for the dim-witted, of any species.

"In the event an agreement is made between us, someone will lead you to the place."

"Don't you mean into an ambush? I was a blond several dyes ago, and I wasn't stupid then."

"I would be giving you my word as a demon, one of the child of Azathoth, that my intentions are truthful."

Giving the woman in the doorway a look that said much, the demon went on.

"Besides, we are not the only beings with a thirst for violence and a history of deception."

The old Buffy Summers of Sunnydale would have been offended by the implications of the last statement and mocked the former. But she was not that girl anymore. Buffy had seen and done things that the little girl she had been wouldn't have, no matter the reason. In her travels, as Isabel and other names, she had come to understand that even the worst of demons had a type of honor that guided them; it seemed oathbreaking was a sin even evil was not willing to allow. So, she understood the seriousness of what the demon was offering. Moreover, Buffy understood that if she wanted to maintain the respect this demon had for her, here were things she would have to guarantee in return.

"Okay. Let's bargain."

"Let us bargain."

~*~*~*~*~*~

The next night saw Buffy and the demon, whom she was still calling Cujo in her mind, meeting in the parking a lot of a 24 hour Stop-N-Go gas station at the edge of town. Her motorcycle was the only mode of transportation there. Inside the building she could see a clerk moving around stocking things on shelves, not many people were out getting gas at 11 o'clock in the dark. As she waited for her 'escort', Buffy stretched and removed her weapons from the specialty saddle bags on the bike. They were what Mika, the

blue-tinted daughter of Mika's mother's one night stand with dimension traveling insurance agent, called Tiny Tesseracts, a misnomer if she'd ever heard one. Although spatial manipulations were a well studied area of magic and technology, trying to contain and stabilize such phenomena was a migraine at best and a world-vaporizing catastrophe at worst. So, not wanting to have to explain to the PTB exactly why she had caused the world to end, Buffy had gone to Mika, then just an apprentice sorceress with radical ideas, for her opinion. When she had told the blue girl that she wanted an easy way to transport all her crap, mainly weapons, across the country with her, Mika had told her 'no problem' and handed over the saddle bags. Which, it turns out, weren't a fold in the space and time of the universe but a portable door that opened into several of Buffy's weapons caches around the country. Much less dangerous that way, the whole encounter had taken five minutes; a fact that made her highly suspicious until Mika had told her that she had a little bit of Seeing talent, a gift from her father, that had let her know who was coming to her and why. Buffy had ended up spending over two months hanging out with the half-human girl before leaving.

Shaking her thoughts out of the past, Buffy pulled her favorite pair of matched short swords out of her bags, **Run** and **Catch**, along with several stakes. Sometimes the old ways really were best. As she re-sealed her bags, Cujo loped out of the darkness around gas station and stood a few meters away from her.

"At your word, we depart."

"Lead on."

"Very well. Follow me, Slayer. Into the trees. Into the dark."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

If Herbert the cowardly vampire had been afraid of the Slayer before, he would be wetting his pants right about now. It seems there was something about trekking through the marshes and woods of the Mississippi countryside that didn't appeal to the petite warrior. They were deeper into the woods than either one expected; Herbert really did not want to be found. Tough karma, not only was the Slayer after blood, but Byn'vth also noticed an increase in his irritation at the leech. Hours alone in the wilderness with the Slayer for company were not any demon's idea of a good time. Neither of them was willing to break the quiet, senses stretched to the max, listening, smelling, looking, and **feeling** into the night around them.

It was hard to say whose attention was caught first. With nary a pause, the Slayer increased her speed, turning in a new direction to follow her prey. Similarly, accompanied only by the soft crunch of bark, Byn'vth launched himself into the treetops to follow the scent in the air. Two hunters stalked the woods, one from above, one from below, a shiver cutting into the night. _We're coming. Run, dead thing, run. While you still can._

Leaving stealth behind, their prey darted and wove around fallen trunks and bushes. No more planning, no more hiding, just this, a desperate chase for the right to survive for another night. With all the speed available to him from over three decades of existence, Herbert fled a blur to even those with enhanced senses. Had it been any other pursuers, it might have been enough. But the Slayer would not be denied again, and the demon refused to let this worm escape. The night had awakened their hunger, and soon they would feed.

With a howl, Byn'vth pushed off the tree he was currently holding onto. The demon sailed through the air in a grace arch, landing mere feet in front of the vampire. As the vamp hurriedly tried to reverse his trajectory, the Slayer was there holding out a foot for him to trip on. The force with which the vampire hit the ground was enough to break a human neck; Herbert lay stunned, his brain twirling around in his cranium. Taking advantage of her quarry's disorientation, the Slayer drove one of her stakes into the thing's chest.

Herbert struggled and gasped as the stake punctured his lung and exited his back. He had never experienced such pain, the wound itching and burning. The thought flitted across his mind that he should have just walked into the sun when he knew the Slayer was after him; it might have hurt less.

As the smell of burnt flesh drifted upwards and light wisps of smoke drifted from around the stake, Byn'vth was too preoccupied searching the Slayer's face to notice the worm's whimpers and pleas. She stood without motion – stillness in every pore, leaving her eyes to swirl with a rage and a hatred that caused the hazel color to give way to gleaming yellow, so much like the creature at her feet. As he continued to study her, he became convinced that the old legends were true. With those glowing, golden eyes that radiated a blood-lust more consuming than any he'd felt, he knew. Knew that deep down, trapped beneath a soul and a smile, the Slayer was just as much a demon as he was.

"Hurts, doesn't it?"

The SoCal accent that tainted most of her words noticeably absent, the Slayer moved to crouch next to the vampire. When it tried to claw at her, another stake appeared in its arm, pinning the limb to the earth as the creature screamed into the darkness that had no consideration for it.

"Have you ever been staked before? Even come close?"

There was no discernable answer from the vampire, just rivers of red that streamed out its mouth. Byn'vth had no pity for it, for whatever crime had attracted this particular Slayer's… ire.

"It's not too pleasant, but you normally don't see this kind of reaction. A little blood, some cursing, the application of demon strength and the splinter's out."

With horror filled eyes, the vampire had no choice but to watch as in tauntingly slow motion the Slayer reached out and twisted the wood impaling his chest. Screaming didn't begin describe the clamor bursting from bloodstained lips.

"These stakes are special. Wood from a tree grown on consecrated ground, carved by a priest of true faith, and dipped in holy water: I made them just for you."

Byn'vth couldn't stop himself from starting at the revelation. No one had known what drove the Slayer to hunt this vampire so strongly, but he was beginning to understand. Vengeance. Breath-stealing, soul-crushing vengeance that made no apologies and knew no mercy.

As thunder rumbled in a cloudless sky, the Slayer brought herself down to the demon's level.

"For Jerry, for Evan, and for all the little boys whose innocence you stole and lives you took. Morning's a long time coming."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

No words were necessary as dawn slipped in between the branches and trunks of the woods. The birds and animals were silent as the sun rose. Nothing disturbed the quiet scene. One Slayer and one demon, standing side by side, watching as corpse in front of them burned away, leaving no trace of the suffering and torture that had lasted hours and decades.

The journey out of the woods was quicker than the trip in. Before the sun had even been in the sky an hour, the pair stopped inside the last boundaries of trees, the gas station a hive of activity as people rushed in and out.

"This is where I leave you, Slayer."

Some part of Buffy wanted to ask Cujo if he had a way home, but that would have been an insult after everything and she was too drained to really care.

"Thanks. I'll be out of town by sundown. My oath, as a daughter of Sineya."

An equal promise that had as much weight as the one the demon had given her; on her lineage, the source of her power, she swore. Without glancing back, she had barely taken a step when the demon spoke again.

"Byn'vth."

The word was unfamiliar. Buffy debated on ignoring him and going forward, but he had remained with her all night, keeping a silent vigil and not interfering, a witness to the happenings beneath a Mississippi moon. She turned and faced the demon.

"The name my tribe bestowed upon me. Byn'vth."

There was a power in names. For the demon to tell her his own was sign that he considered her an equal and deserving of respect. After everything, she didn't even think to withhold her own.

"I'm Buffy."

They both vanished. He glided back into the trees, and she faded into the sunlight.

~*~*~*~*~*~

It hadn't taken her long to get collect her motorcycle and get back to her motel room. After scrubbing her skin nearly raw and shedding a few tears in the hollow comfort of the crappy shower stall, Buffy saw that she had at least six hours until the sun went down. Now, she could have hopped on her bike and driven away, but the entire situation had worn her down and all she wanted to do was sleep. Setting an alarm for four hours later, Buffy slept like the dead once her head hit the pillow.

~*~*~

She was dancing in Paris. The lights merged into a cocoon as she spun and spun. Her hands clutched the sides of her dress and together they twirled like red flames….

She was laughing in Savannah. The three men onstage, tripping and pushing each other, wavered as she shook with mirth. Her delight and astonishment echoed inside the theatre and they leap in the air like silver waves…

She was getting married in Dublin. The breath fled from her body as her mother tightened the corset, breaking the room into fractured images that reflected her excitement. Her feet and veil floated toward the isle and they glittered like falling stars…

She was crying in Liverpool. The casket winked in and out of sight as it was lowered into the new grave. Her child and her tears mingled and they screamed like the damned…

She was a farm girl in Romania. The silver bell that hung in the church's steeple tolled into the cold day. Her mind drifted from the ground she was tilling as she rose and stared in the direction of the ringing. An accented voice broke into her reverie.

"You might wanna get that, Princess. When destiny calls you gotta answer."

The Irish brogue reminded her of her wedding day… except she'd never been married.

She was Slaying in California. The future had abandoned her, leaving only empty promises. Her hands were fists and weapons and they felled the mighty…

"What destiny? Mine was over long ago. Pain. Death. Apocalypse. Remember?"

Shaking his head, the man with green eyes changed. Pale skin became green and eyes went red; curved blue thorns jetted out from beneath green. Then he was a man once more.

"It's been what, five, six years now? Time to wake up, Slayer."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The phone startled her into the land of the living, loudly complaining at her inattention. Its ring tone indicating the number was unavailable. With a groan Buffy realized she hadn't even gotten two hours of sleep. The continued shrieking caused her to lunge at the dresser on which the annoyance sat, pressing the stupid thing to her ear.

"Isabel Nix."

A voice that she had only heard once before came over the line.

"I need to get a message to Buffy. This Mac Taylor from New York, we met under, um, strange circumstances almost six months ago. I need her help."

~*~*~*~*~*~

Within thirty minutes Buffy had packed, checked out, and was just now breezing past the sign that said 'You are now leaving Meridian.' The next time she stopped to rest was early Friday morning as she stopped to refuel at Texaco just over the North Carolina state line.

Inside the motel room was a wooden box that contained a steel dagger engraved with set of three runes: the jagged slashes of Sowilo, the slanted H of Hagalaz, and the thorny spear of Thurisaz.

And the last thing Buffy had grabbed before she left was the black knife embedded into the door of her motel room, whose hilt was encircled by red stakes and yellow eyes.

Meanings:

-Sowilo (the sun): success, goals achieved, honor

-Hagalaz (hail): destructive and uncontrolled forces, wrath of nature

-Thurisaz (thorn): reactive force, cleansing fire, directed force of destruction and defense

Taken from www .sunnyway. com/runes/meanings.


	2. Chapter 1: The Black Parade

Chapter One – The Black Parade:

Disclaimer: Same as before.

AN: Thank you to everyone who reviewed. I'm sorry this wasn't out sooner; it ended up being a little longer than I had anticipated.

AN2: A special thanks to Jenna for her encouragement and enthusiasm, a driving force for me get this part up and posted. Thanks!

New York City

Mac Taylor was generally a man who was in control. He **liked** being in control, making decisions that seemed best and acting accordingly. It wasn't that he had a problem listening to other people, he heeded Stella's advice more often then not, but he just couldn't understand how some people made the choices they did. To him, the world was a logical place, even if certain human beings tried very hard to mess it up. At least the world had been a logical place six months ago. Now Mac found his thoughts slipping back to that time on far more occasions than he'd like, back to the monstrous **thing** that had attacked him and the young woman, he couldn't bring himself to call her a girl, who had saved him. The little tiny woman who had rescued a highly trained Marine, from Mac's perspective that was seven different kinds of screwed up.

He had tried to repress the incident, hadn't wanted to find himself drowning in a new obsession or liquid oblivion, because if there was one thing that could drive him to distraction or drink, besides his wife's death, it was a gory mystery. Fortunately, his job was filled with those of the human kind. And God, he'd never thought there would be a day when he would have to clarify **human**. So, Mac had lost himself in his work, found himself in Peyton and Stella and the team that was his family. He'd generally gone as he always had, just a little more thankful, just a little more aware, just a little more willing to try. Still, when the sun set and the CSIs were out at night, Mac demanded no one be left alone and carefully scanned every shadow. For the first time since he was a child, Mac Taylor was afraid of the dark.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Friday – Seven Days Ago:

It seemed like every time Mac turned around there was a new case, a new dead body, a new criminal mastermind who wasn't happy making a few hundred grand a year on Wall Street and decided to make a few easy million by killing someone. That last one had been a real genius, leaving the murder weapon on display in his office. While he appreciated having open and shut cases, they were often more troublesome in the long run. Everybody was likely to forget the poor girl who had been shot two doors away from her apartment; no one forgot the man who had been decapitated in Central Park. Looking back, Mac **still** wasn't satisfied that there wasn't a more occult reason for the removal of the victim's head.

Mac reached into his suit jacket to insure his badge was still where it should be and picked up his trusty forensic kit from its usual spot near the door. His gun was firmly holstered at his hip, a comforting presence despite **certain** events. He looked through the clear glass walls of the lab before heading towards his prey.

Hawkes had his back turned to the door, his focus on the curly haired woman in front of him. It had always impressed Mac how calm Dr. Sheldon Hawkes was in a face of Stella's determination. Lesser men had been known to faint on sight, but there was Hawkes, letting Stella pace and rant about whatever was bothering her. A tilt in the angle of the doctor's head told Mac that he had asked a question. From the abrupt way Stella had turned and planted herself in front of the man, Mac guessed that whatever was said, she hadn't wanted to hear. Deciding to rescue his fellow man from what was sure to be a verbal lashing that would leave Hawkes unable to do anything besides curl up in a corner and cry, Mac entered the room.

"What are you talking about? The astronauts would so kick the cavemen's prehistoric as... asphyxia is a pretty common cause of death, right Sheldon?"

Catching the tale end of the conversation, Mac blinked in confusion. Apparently, Hawkes had no clue either and was humoring the woman.

"Yeah, you wouldn't believe the amount of death certificates where under 'Cause of Death' I've had to list autoerotic asphyxiation… Hey, Mac."

He had no other choice; he was going to pretend this never happened. The chances of a successful repression had to be pretty good, right?

"Stella, Hawkes, if you two are done, we've got a crime scene."

~*~*~*~*~

Traffic being what it is in New York, the trip to the scene took almost an hour. When he had gotten out the SUV, Hawkes took the opportunity to look around. It was a stereotypical Manhattan warehouse, decrepit and probably filled with asbestos. As his brain began to list the possible diseases and symptoms that were associated with exposure, he noticed Mac had lost his barely discernable smirk of superior amusement that his boss had worn the whole way here. Now the ex-Marine was glaring at the building in front of them like it had killed his puppy. Not that Mac had a puppy; he wasn't really puppy owner material, if the man had ever had a canine of any kind, Hawkes was willing to bet it had been a big, massive thing with lots of teeth and an attitude problem, like Fluffy. Yeah, he could see Mac telling a three-headed Cerberus to sit.

Having settled his imagination for awhile, Hawkes grabbed his kit and followed his co-workers inside the warehouse. Detective Don Flack had been waiting for them; he was already half-way into his information rundown. The officer and he had never been the best of friends and never would be; Flack thought he was creepy because he'd liked to cut open dead bodies and spend all his time secluded with them for a living. On Hawkes part, to him Flack had too much presence, all sharp edges and masking smiles. In spite, or maybe because of, those feelings, both men tried especially hard to reach the other, to maintain the peace of the symbiotic relationship that existed between the CSIs and the officer. They trusted each other. So, knowing that Flack would come over and tell him once he'd finished with Stella and Mac, Hawkes walked to the taped off area.

The place was clean. Too clean, indicating the perpetrator had taken time to prepare this place before bringing the victim here. The killer wouldn't have taken the time to clean up after and not dispose of the body. There was some kind of pattern on the concrete floor, interlocking circles and strange markings done in black. Being careful to not disturb the design or any trace, Hawkes ducked under the tape and began to photograph everything.

As he got closer and closer to the body, he realized that it was at the center of the drawing. That revelation sent a shiver of dread up Hawkes' spine. _Someone just walked over my grave._ Finally reaching the origin, he saw Mac and Stella starting at different points along the perimeter and do the same thing he had done. Flack was making his way towards him, just as vigilant as the scientists in avoiding contaminating the evidence.

Crouching down, the doctor studied the still form as Flack began to fill him in. By smell and sight, the victim had been dead several days which fit with the information the detective had. A Caucasian male in his late forties, there was no clothing on the body or anywhere on scene so far. Hawkes could see two shallow incisions under the man's eyes but no other visible trauma. Leaving the determination of exact cause of death for his former coworkers in the morgue, he listened to Flack's concise speech and the twang of his New York accent.

A teen, probably a runaway looking for somewhere to crash, had come inside and found the body; after calling 911, the kid disappeared with all the skill that usually came with being a runner. From there, the uniforms had checked the scene, deemed it legit, and called Homicide, where Detectives Flack and Taylor caught the short straw. Nothing too important, other than that there was no owner of record for the warehouse and there never had been one. Evidently, the warehouse had popped up and been built overnight with no one the wiser.

Done with his perusal of the area around the body, Hawkes had just started to rise when something caught his eye. Turning to his kit, he withdrew a small penlight and flashed it over one of the lines on the floor. There. By this time, his actions had drawn the other two CSIs gaze. He bent down and ran a Q-tip over the substance, confirming his suspicions as he stared at the cotton tip. As Hawkes continued his staring match with the swab, everyone else impatiently waited for the man to speak. Lifting his gaze upwards, Sheldon spoke.

"It's still wet. And Mac, the color isn't black. It's red."

~*~*~*~*~*~

Saturday – Six Days Ago:

It had taken the three CSIs over ten hours to collect the bare minimum of evidence they needed. By that time, the unis at the scene at been switched at shift change; Mac, Stella, and Hawkes were all clocking a good amount of overtime working from mid-afternoon Friday into the early hours of the next day. Given the amount of square feet inside the warehouse, the need to document every line on the concrete, both photographically and topographically, and to sweep every corner, crevice, and crack for evidence, not to mention collect samples and other trace before time further degraded the samples, it was no wonder the process was taking so long. The normal procedure for large crime scenes was for one of the CSIs to periodically take evidence to the lab to maintain the chain of custody, but in this instance, with the time restraints, any evidence each of them gathered was sealed, recorded, and put away until a mass exodus was possible when the three were done processing.

Saturday after lunch saw everyone, lab techs and CSIs alike, starting to run tests and samples on the multitude of evidence Mac, Stella, and Hawkes had collected during the night. When Adam had come in that morning and seen the amount of work they expected him to get through, he'd almost ripped a patch of hair off this head. The coroner's office, located in the sub-levels of the building, was hopping, trying to figure out cause of death, sending blood and tissue samples to Toxicology, and fingerprinting the victim.

As it turned out, Hawkes' ominous words of the previous day were not without credibility. The black paint on the floor turned out to be blood, over four quarts of it. None of the tests they had tried revealed why it appeared black when on the ground at the scene, yet after swabbing it, the sample would revert to the deep apple red color of fresh blood. Three different techs, of which Adam was one, and Mac had verified the results, they were now on a quest to find a drug compound with anti-coagulant properties that causes a physical color change when added.

The CSI crew wasn't the only one baffled; the M.E. had figured out cause of death quickly even if Sid couldn't understand how. Their victim bled to death, just not through his mouth, eyes, ears, or other bodily orifice; according to Hawkes, the cuts on the victim's face were too shallow to explain a severe type of blood loss. Sid had backed up that assertion. So, their victim's blood had drained from his body in some manner, currently unknown. The body hadn't been moved after death and his blood hadn't been found. If it weren't for the fact that everyone at the crime lab had seen weirder, they might have been getting a little anxious right about now.

While the scientists were having fun playing with microscopes and slides, Flack had been running down information on the victim. His prints had come up in AFIS because of some minor trouble when the man was twenty; the lab had kicked the I.D. his way after they'd processed his prints. Spending a few hours combing newspapers, old files, and making some calls had given Flack the highpoints. As he finished scrawling out the last bit of notes in his detective diary, Don Flack left his desk. He had a CSI to find.

The drive to the lab had put him in a good mood, Flack didn't know what the hell was the meaning behind what he'd found out about the vic, but his frustration was nothing what Mac was going to feel when he told the man. That thought put a little bounce in his step as he waited for the elevator doors to open onto the appropriate level. Spying Mac inside his office Flack went in; without waiting for an acknowledgement from the man leaning over the desk in front of him, he began to share his findings.

"The victim was a man named Val Boren, a minor league pro-baseball legend from the mid-eighties. Got the name off a collar for drunk and disorderly in '81. Boren came in and resigned from the team on the day he was going to make it to the majors. Never gave any explanation, just up and walked away from it all. Fell off the radar for a few years before returning to New York in '95 with a psych degree and started counseling people who survived traumatic events. From the people I talked to, they all say the same thing. He does great work, and they'll never be able to replace him, etcetera, etcetera. I got a current address if you wanna check that out."

That was more information than they usually had to start a tracing down leads, but Mac couldn't help but wonder why the man had given up his career, fame, and money for no apparent reason. He hadn't trying to figure people out sometimes; they were so confusing and messy. Regardless, he agreed with the detective, a visit to Boren's residence was in order, but it wasn't going to be tonight. There were too many unanswered questions and tests to run around the lab, all hands were on duty. So, for today, the only place Mac was going the 'dungeon' room, to perform a tool mark analysis on the cuts on the victim's cheeks.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Sunday – Five Days Ago:

This was Danny and Lindsey's second day at this crime scene. Although the other three CSIs had gotten the original call, they were doing more exploration on the lab's findings. So, the duo had gone out on Sunday to look over the warehouse and take more samples. In between spending a few hours with his head in a series of Petri dishes and gravimetric analysis, Danny had gotten work from Mac to get down to the scene. Lindsey had received the same order, and they were on their way. So, almost more than fifty swabs, castings, and printings later, they return to the lab, not as conquering heroes but hated overlords bringing more work for the peasants.

Sunday found the pair standing in the same warehouse. Mac had ordered a final once over of the scene and dispatched Danny and Lindsey again. On their way, they had picked up Hawkes from the station where he had been delivering some information and reports to Flack. If Danny thought he was sick of looking at the scene, he couldn't imagine how the doc felt.

Splitting up, the trio divided the area into parts: Lindsey got the center of the room, the smallest share but most highly prolific, Danny had the outer walls and floor, and Hawkes was rechecking the building's perimeter. Thoroughly, each one studied their section, making a final once-over before the scene was released. With all their focus on the area in front of them, they had no idea that they were being watched.

~*~*~*~*~

This was it. He was the one. They could feel his power radiating from within his form; it was so pure, so tempting. The desire rose within them as they contemplated what would come next. Screaming and crying and black ruin, laughing and tearing, the beginnings of endings and the endings of all. They couldn't wait. Oh, yes, they would have him. For his beauty, for his strength. For their fun.

~*~*~*~*~

Val Boren's neighbors had been unhelpful. All they knew was that the man had moved in over ten years ago and never left. No, they didn't know if he had many visitors, was in any kind of trouble, had any family; they couldn't bring themselves to care. He was always coming and going, woke them up a dozen times too with his weird hours. Beyond that, it was a bust. Mac would have been surprised at the lack of apathy, but this was New York, it had a higher turnover rate than McDonald's.

After the super had let Detective Flack and him into the apartment, he noticed a large white-board on the far wall. Moving around the few pieces of furniture in the room, Mac stopped to read the writings on it. It was mostly lists, of people and places. There were maps of each of the five boroughs with colored pushpins at several locations. The final column on the board was labeled suspects; underneath the heading were several rows of letters and numbers that made little sense upon initial glance. Lifting his camera, Mac took several pictures of the board before returning to investigate the rest of the apartment.

Flack was already looking through the victim's room, knowing better than to touch anything, but still securing the place anyway. His bedroom was neat, a dresser against one wall, a TV stand on another; there was a closet full of clean clothes, a bathroom off to the side. In the kitchen was a fully stocked fridge, so Boren had obviously planned on returning. An old computer sat on one end of the table, dust free and well cared for; shelves of books lined the only window and door free wall in the living room. There were a few books about forensic science, medicine, and theology; the other books had no visible titles on their spins. When Mac had taken one off the shelf and opened it, the pages were blank. He turned to face the other man with him.

"This makes no sense. Why would Boren, who obviously has a reason for owning all these books, waste the room on empty books?"

"I dunno, Mac. Have you noticed anything else?"

Glancing around the apartment again, the CSI decided he had no clue what Flack was talking about.

"There's no baseball paraphernalia anywhere. I mean, the guy was something back in the day, so why aren't there any trophies or home videos or pictures? Not even a bat to knock burglars out with!"

"Maybe he didn't want to be reminded of something; we still don't know why he quit."

"Yeah, maybe, but man, there's not a sign here. That kind of thing isn't wanting to forget. It's running away."

~*~*~*~*~

Monday – Four Days Ago:

Mac was facing the circles. Someone had finally gotten around to compiling the photos from the crime scene into a 3-D hologram; it hadn't helped much. So, here he was staring at the seven circles drawn in blood as if they were the key to everything. Which, he admitted to himself, might be true; when killers left messages of any kind at a scene, it was time to sit up and take notice.

The three largest circles had a fifteen foot radius and parts of all three overlapped, like a Venn diagram; it was inside the one section that contained part of all three circles that the body was placed. Four smaller circles with three foot radii were all equidistant from the concentric origin. Inside the nonintersecting pieces of the three larger circles were triangles that connected side to tip. It was enough high school geometry to give anyone nightmares.

Then there were the marks, letters, glyphs, whatever you wanted to call them. Three of them were drawn in the overlapping sections between two of the larger circles. After the coroner's assistants had removed Mr. Boren's body, a fourth one revealed itself. No one knew what to make of it; the images were unclear, the smears of blood running together to make any sort of identification tricky.

That left Mac with the circles, seven of them. He had come back to them again and again, calculating angles, area, distances between points, and more; his math told the scientist that it would have taken at least four to seven hours for any one person to measure out the space and draw out the pattern. Which, when you added the time it takes for someone to abduct the victim and let him bleed to death meant that the killer had spent a long time in that warehouse. How had he been able to do all that and leave so little evidence behind?

Allowing himself a brief moment of respite, Mac stood up and stretched and listened as the bones in his neck cracked at the change in position. _Not as young as I used to be_. As he looked out the room, he saw Flack heading towards him. The mouth that so often jumped into a smirk or snarl was firmly held level; the way the skin under the New York native's blue eyes hung ever so slightly low told Mac that whatever it was, wasn't good. _None of us are._

"We've got another body."

~*~*~*~*~*~

Every time Flack worked serial cases, he always expected the scenes to be different. A combination of jilted hope and cynical realism made the thought the same every time. _Is this one different?_ If he had asked any of the CSIs, the answer would be 'yes'. Every time. But for Don Flack, every scene had the same feel: a disbelieving anger that this had happened-to-me, a heartfelt desire for just-one-more-day, and a despairing acceptance of the way the stones fell. It sunk into his clothes, his skin; for weeks after the case was over the feeling would be there.

Sometimes he wondered if they really were blind to the situation. It became a quest for one more piece of evidence, a search for the answers, and a passion for the truth. Every single time. They didn't stop, even for a moment, to think that somebody died here. Right under their feet was a portal between the living and where ever the dead go after. A person, a future of possibilities, was destroyed. Flack couldn't kid himself that he was any different because he was just as jaded as they were; only he hid it better.

Another call had come in from a homeless kid, this time in Brooklyn. Did the runaways have something to do with the case or was there killer just looking for abandoned building to use? It was a question that he could be canvassing the local shelters and alleys to find the answer to. Seven circles and three triangles surrounded the body, a female this time. The woman looked eighty, if a day. Serial killers normally kept to one victim type, but this guy wasn't doing anything by the books. There had been no owner for this building either, surprise, surprise.

Not wanting to step inside the bloody diagram, Flack watched from the edge as all five of his friends swarmed over the scene like bees to honey. _Creepy_. One of the reasons he and Hawkes didn't get along too well in the beginning; the man had spent practically his entire life with dead people. He could understand Sid, the older man was just nuts and a little too weird, even for New York sometimes, but why Hawkes had made that decision was one he couldn't figure out. They were good now; it had taken him one autopsy, observing unknown from the shadows near the entrance to see. Hawkes had a gentle soul: every incision had a purpose and every test had a reason; the man treated the bodies as if someone was still there, still watching and crying over what had become of them. After that moment, as far as Don Flack was concerned Hawkes was one of the good guys.

~*~*~*~*~

Soon. The time was soon. The one they wanted was almost ready, almost here. Soon enough. The day would see to it, promises made under bright flame and burning light. Soon.

~*~*~*~*~

Some hours later, Flack was back at his desk in Homicide when a fax was sent over from St. Anthony's Home for Noble Retiring; one of their guests was missing. The fax included a picture of Maude Grey, 82. He would have to call down to the morgue with the name; their victim was a resident and nurse's aid. She had no family to speak of, although several other guests were already planning a grand funeral for the old girl. She had few material possessions and a pension from the Archdiocese, the remainder of which would be paid to a charity that dealt with the survivors of traumatic events.

~*~*~*~*~

Tuesday – Three Days Ago:

~*~*~*~*~

Wednesday – Two Days Ago:

At approximately 2:18 a.m. Monday morning, a body was rushed through the emergency room doors of Mount Sinai Hospital in Manhattan. Unknown male, age indeterminate, was discovered by a bouncer outside one of the borough's many hotspots. Emergency services responded to the call and found the victim to be a man with no I.D. who appeared severely beaten. Upon his arrival at Mount Sinai, doctors worked hard to reset the bones of the left wrist and two ribs; during their initial evaluation a superficial cut was noted over the victim's heart. Although his blood pressure had spiked when he'd first been brought in, the man's heartbeat remained stable.

By 7:53 a.m. the John Doe was given a room in the hospital proper, and the battle was over. Looking through the window at the bed on which the man laid, one of the E.R. doctors stood motionless in his street clothes. The doctor's shift was over an hour ago, but he'd come down to take one last look at the victim that had come in earlier. The man had been covered in blood, dirt, and bruises; now that the nurses had cleaned him up, his dark complexion shown through. First rule of practicing medicine: don't work on people you know. Every person that came in those doors, the doctors in the E.R. tried hard not to see their faces while saving their lives; it was too much to bear that you might have your hand inside the chest of your daughter, spouse, parent, friend. That was the fear that haunted each of them.

And today, Dr. Jason Clay found himself living that nightmare.

~*~*~*~*~

Mac read through Sid's autopsy report for the fifth time. He knew all the facts but couldn't put the pieces together. Maude Grey had bled to death just like Val Boren; except her only external injury were two lacerations over the back of her hands, both shallow and small. The marking at the scene were done in blood, not her own and not Val Boren's; no hits had come from C.O.D.I.S. from the unknown human blood sample from either scene. Both were the same blood type O negative, the fourth rarest in the U.S., but had distinct donors. The same pattern was on the floor of each crime scene. He just wasn't seeing it.

While Mac gnawed on his report shaped bone, Stella was carefully examining the remains of a candy wrapper from Maude Grey's murder site. She had already collected several organic samples after smoothing out the crumpled ball, and analysis was pending. The sweet scent of sugar and artificial preservatives wafted into her nose as she bent down to read the name on the plastic package. The wrapper itself was one didn't recognize. It was blue with green writing on it, but the name had been obscured during the opening and crumpling. Whatever progress she had made was lost as she caught sight of Mac sprinting to the elevator.

~*~*~*~*~

Jason's phone was in his hand; the shiny bits of metal and plastic taunting him with his failure: his failure to recognize a close friend that he had made while doing a residency together at a hospital across the city. Sheldon Hawkes was the kind of doctor everyone loved, compassionate and empathetic. Except other doctors, they all knew the man's caring would make things worse for himself in the long run, and it had. None of them had been very surprised when after losing one patient too many, Dr. Hawkes had quit practicing medicine, on the living anyway. Seeing Sheldon walk out of the emergency room and into the morgue had been a shock for pretty much everyone. But that wasn't here or there or anywhere, really.

While Jason had been lost in the past, his body had taken on will of its own. The sound of ringing filled his ear and anchored him to the present. He didn't want to think of what he was going to say or how it would sound. All he wanted as for this night to have never happened. A voice on the other end of the line triggered the automatic response that all doctors developed over time.

"This Dr. Jason Clay from Mount Sinai Hospital, I am a friend a Dr. Sheldon Hawkes. I was also one of the attending physicians on duty when he came in last night."

~*~*~*~

Thursday – One Day Ago:

His chest felt funny, too tight and too bouncy; he could almost feel pieces shifting around in there. _Indicative of broken ribs._ The thought filtered through Hawkes' mind as he tried to remain as still as possible. Tightness and pressure could only mean someone had taped his ribs up, moving at the moment would be a rather silly idea. Judging by the cloudy haze that tingled over his body, he was also receiving some type of pain medication. He could only be in one place – the hospital.

"Why am I in the hospital?"

The frantic whining and bleating of a heart monitor were the only replies he got.

~*~*~*~*~

Mac Taylor sat next to the side of Hawkes' bed; the man had slept most of the day, waking only once and frightening another ten years off of him by having what the other doctors assured him was only a panic attack. That was ten years on top of the thirty he'd aged since getting Dr. Clay's call, informing him that one of his employees, one of his family, was injured and being treated for semi-serious wounds. Although his SUV had been the first to make it to Mount Sinai, it hadn't been the last. Stella, Flack, Lindsey, and Danny had each bullied, bribed, and threatened people into taking over for them before breaking very traffic law to get here themselves.

Everyone had been apprised of the situation. Hawkes had a broken wrist, one broken rib and two cracked ones, a minor concussion, a cut on his chest, and some bruising. No one knew what had happened, just the same facts the cops did. Flack and Danny were both itching to get their hands on the person that had done this, but their concern kept them rooted to the hospital room. None of them wanted to leave their friend alone while he was helpless and unaware in slumber.

At some point between Wednesday night and Thursday morning, they began to get calls from work, demanding their return. The world was not willing to provide time-outs for visiting family. Hawkes seemed to be content to sleep off his injuries, so one by one they each left, promising to come back and stay with him later. Now, it was only Mac sitting here. Some days, being the boss was worth the inevitable headaches.

Mac's new obsession was listening to the blips of the heart monitor; the rhythm fluctuated: high-high-low beat-beat, soft-thump-thump-thump. A song that was unique to this one man, a story of living and dying, a painting in draw in lines and colored in red, it was the thin, jagged edge that stood between the here and lost. His mind drifting into ever more fantastical musing, Mac snorted at how sappy he was becoming. The only thing that affected him like this was the threat of someone he cared for going away. Who would have thought that such a tiny sound could be so comforting and so deceiving? It was a reassurance of life, but it couldn't reflect the beast beneath the surface. There were no machines that drew the horrors and dark visions that plagued the people in these rooms; only the sound of a heart to promise that the person was willing to try.

As Thursday morning became afternoon, Mac grimaced as he pulled his body up from the plastic chair. The last 24 hours had permanently engraved his outline in its fake contours; although judging by the pain in his back, it wasn't the first time some had made that impression. He was sweaty and grimy and exhausted and relieved and bouncing back in forth between so many emotions was giving him whiplash. And a headache. After Hawkes' outburst earlier, the doctor had given him more pain medication; he wouldn't be waking up for the foreseeable future. Beneath the assurances that Hawkes was out for awhile, Stella was going to be at the hospital in less than an hour, and the uniform posted at the door, Mac felt he could slip out for a shower and caffeine before returning to watch over his injured duckling. He wouldn't be missed.

~*~*~*~*~

The room was empty; no one was there. Waking up had been no picnic the first time, and the second round hadn't proved much better, but he had to leave, had to get away.

There were so many papers to sign, so many questions to answer. Over and over they said the same damn things; he didn't care. He just wanted to run away. His answers had been simple, yet no one had understood. They kept asking and picking and trying to touch him. Why were they touching him? He wanted to go. He had to go. They couldn't stop him. He was going. The papers were signed, the instructions given not that he didn't know them already. He was going.

"I don't remember what happened. Write that in your damn report!"

With a final yell and tired sigh, Sheldon Hawkes bolted away from Mount Sinai Hospital with all the speed his bumps, bruises, and broken bones would let him muster.

~*~*~*~*~

Throughout his quick trip home, Mac Taylor couldn't help but worry. It was natural for a man like him; as a soldier then a CSI, he knew, intimately, the lengths that humans could and would go to damage each other. There was a sinister drive within men and women, something that made them crave pain and blood and anguish and death. And after they had satisfied their cravings, the victims were left to suffer for their attacker's sins. Thinking of Sheldon in that position, helpless and unable to anything more than endure, was enough to bring him to his knees before losing the little food he'd eaten in the trash can in his kitchen. So, Mac was worried, not just about catching the people that hurt Sheldon or his recovery or the apparent serial killer on the loose but about what the future held for all of them.

While at his apartment, Mac took the time to shower and shave away the three day growth that was making him look like a crazy person, or so Lindsey had informed him on the lunch break she had used to catch a glimpse of Sheldon before jetting back to lab. He shoved a few mouthfuls of some kind of food down his throat and called Flack to get an update on the murder investigation. The news was not reassuring; there was evidence to suggest that New York wasn't the only place their killer had been. According to Flack, who was sifting through a few dozen cases trying to pick out the relevant ones, he had found at least five others that were matches to their M.O., three on the west coast and two international. After ending the phone call with the detective, Mac was momentarily frozen by the implications of the information before shaking his intellectual daydream off and getting in his S.U.V. to return to his guarding of one Sheldon Hawkes.

~*~*~*~*~

Upon his arrival at the Hawkes' room at the hospital, Mac found his worry was not misplaced. Seeing Stella screaming at a quivering doctor in a mix of Greek and English was a big clue; she would never disturb Sheldon's rest like that. His inventory of the room, neatly made bed and folded blankets with no injured CSI in sight, brought his blood pressure up to unhealthy levels. Panic racing in his mind, Mac grabbed the officer that was standing to the side, hoping to avoid the crossfire.

"What happened here? How did someone get in? Where the hell is my CSI?"

Wanting to ease the man's anxiety and not get shot, the officer's response was quickly spit out.

"No one got in, and nothing happened. About an hour and a half ago, Dr. Hawkes woke up again and demanded to be released from the hospital."

At this point, Mac's sharp bark cut through Stella's tirade as well as the uniform's account. "What!"

Stella heard the-somebody-better-have-a-damn-good-explanation-or-fear-my-wrath tone in her friend's voice and waved away the now trembling duo of doctor and officer, taking over the story herself.

"Hawkes woke up and signed himself out A.M.A. Said he didn't need to stay any longer, he was a doctor and knew how to take care of himself. When they realized he was serious, the doctors had no choice but to do what he asked. They couldn't keep him if he didn't want to stay. By the time Hawkes had finished with all the paperwork, a detective had come down to take his statement. Which, by the way, amounts to 'I don't remember.' He doesn't know where he was taken from, where he was brought, what happened, or why he was let go."

The dry tone told Mac all he needed to know about what Stella was thinking, and he agreed. Hawkes was obviously hiding something and didn't want anyone prying into the matter. Whatever he was hiding was probably both dangerous and personal, the only reason either of the two could think of for Sheldon's behavior was that he was protecting something. They just didn't know why.

Although her words had been sarcastic, Mac could see the fear and concern in her blue eyes. He reached out and pulled her into a hug; they remained that way for several moments before breaking apart. After being friends for so many years, the spoken communication that passed between the two was largely unnecessary.

"I'll head back to the lab and tell everyone what's going on."

"And I'll track down our wayward doctor."

As he turned and made his way down the white hallways, he called back over his shoulder. "Make sure no one is burning down my lab while I'm not there to supervise."

Stella's light chuckle followed him all the way to the vehicle. It was a quickly fading ray of light in the tangle of apprehension, fear, and anger that was his mind.

~*~*~*~*~

'Five floors up and eight windows over,' Mac thought to himself as he took advantage of his status as a member of the NYPD and parked in front of the building. If he looked up he could see the windows to Sheldon's apartment from where he sat in his car. The dark curtains behind clear glass told no tales of its owner's whereabouts; they were shut, as always, and no light would be seen from behind them.

Leaving his musings behind, Mac charged up five flights of stairs and passed three doors on the right before coming to the fourth. He raised his fist and a heavy knock resounded from the door; shuffling noises reached his ears from behind the wooden barrier. Mac continued his bangs, interspersing the thumping with pleas and requests for Sheldon to let him in. After three minutes, finally fed up with his friend's refusal to let him in, he stopped knocking.

"Sheldon Hawkes, you have five seconds to open this door or I'm going to kick it down. You know I will. Five."

Before Mac reached two, the door that had denied him entry and taken several layers of skin from him opened to reveal Sheldon, a Sheldon Hawkes that, funnily enough, looked like he had just been severely beaten and left for dead in some anonymous street. Any irritation he had felt faded as he got a good look at the man. Despite his obvious pain and tiredness, Sheldon was pacing around the apartment, darting this way and that, pausing only to murmur to himself for a moment before shaking his head and off he went again. Mac stepped into the room and closed the door behind him; he did up the first and last locks of the row on the door, a precaution that gave him time to think.

Only one light was turned on; the sparse glow and twisting shadows taunted his imagination and covered Sheldon's face in madness. Slowly, he moved further into the other man's domain, cautious to keep from startling him.

"Why did you leave the hospital?"

The question jumped out from Mac's throat before he had a chance to stop it. Judging by the doctor's reaction, it hadn't been unanticipated. A sardonic and exhausted look met his eyes. Evidently deciding that answering would take to much energy, he returned to his manic pacing.

"Sheldon, you left the hospital A.M.A. - without telling anyone where you were going. You had just been the victim of a crime, which you claim to not remember. Why did you run away?"

The question caused a deviation in Sheldon's circuit. Instead of heading for one of the windows, the man in question retreated to the corner of the room and pressed is forehead into the wall, half-words and whispers emanating from him. They remained like that, the concerned and cornered for all of eternity that could be contained in twenty minutes.

"You wouldn't believe me."

The scratched and hurting voice that sounded nothing like the man he knew came from the figure as it slide down the wall and cradled its broken wrist. Mac had lost count of the amount of times he'd heard that statement, from victims, from the innocent, from the guilty. He always gave the trite and expected response, knowing that if the person really wanted his help, they would tell him what they could to save themselves. But never before had he heard it from someone he knew, someone that had knew him. Mac Taylor was a man of belief, maybe not always in God, but he believed in science, in justice, and in his family. It kind of hurt that Sheldon didn't have the same faith in him.

"How can you know that if you don't try?"

"You wouldn't believe me."

The flat and repetitive statement weighed down the space between them. Before he could speak, another reply unfurled to join the last.

"You wouldn't believe me. I don't believe me."

A tired humor and overwhelming terror laced the bitter words.

"I mean, it's impossible, right? I go over and over it in my head and it's impossible. Things like this aren't real. They don't exist. Fairytales and horror stories are for books and movies not reality. The Boogeyman doesn't live under the bed and in the closet; it's a figment inside the heads' the demented and the tormented, a deathly and deadly monster of human making and creation. But I've seen It, so that means I must be crazy. Did I see him because I'm crazy or am I crazy because I saw him? Tell me, Mac, did I make him or did he make me? What's real: It or me?"

As Sheldon descended into whimpers and jumbled words, Mac was nearly flattened by what he'd said. Something, some_thing_ had gotten to the younger man. Was it the trauma of what happened distorting his mind or had he run into one of _those_ things? Lowering himself to the floor next to his friend, Mac grabbed the unbroken hand that was fluttering about and gently squeezed, drawing the connected body's attention.

"Tell me."

There was a promise in those two words that only a few could understand. It had nothing to do with friendship or love; it was a jaded pact between survivors, a holy transaction between the burdened and the confessor. It was nothing more than a promise to find out the truth, come what may, good or bad, no matter the consequences.

And Sheldon did.

~*~*~*~*~

The fatigue that he had been fighting caught up with the injured one after bleeding himself of the shades that had been plaguing his mind. Mac had given the doctor some his medicines and put him into bed. Now, staring out the slightly parted curtains at the slowly setting sun, he watched as the dying day filtered through the red curtain and painted the room in warm, crimson blood. All the world was blood; he was drowning in it, a sadness and memory that claimed even as it killed.

A worn card was in lying on his palm, innocent and pristine in this place of desecration and determination. He wasn't considering his choices; he had already made it. It was just a question of when. Something had held him back from immediately dialing the number, so here he was, waiting for some sign or omen to tell him that it was okay to call. A stern kick from the scientific part of his brain shattered whatever spell he'd been under. Mac knew that time was important in any type of investigation, evidence degraded, attackers moved on, witnesses' memories faded.

Mac's phone was pressed into his ear before he had the chance to ponder anything more.

"I need to get a message to Buffy. This Mac Taylor from New York, we met under, um, strange circumstances almost six months ago. I need her help."

!~!~!~!~!

Please REVIEW! I need at least one before I post the next part.


	3. Chapter 2: The Lost Realist

Chapter 2 – The Lost Realist:

Disclaimer: Not mine! Any vague references to classic literature or familiar lines do not belong to me, I'm just taking them for a spin.

AN: Thanks for the reviews! To Illyriagoddess, thanks for editing this chapter for me and convincing me that I didn't need to completely rewrite it.

AN2: Any inconsistencies in time or place you see are either my mistakes or a creative use of the power of AU. I hope it's worth the wait.

The road had never seemed so long. Miles and miles of rock and dust lay between her and her destination, and she was pushing it. Having the heartbeat of destiny resounding in your ears and twitching on your tongue will do that to a girl. The air itself hummed, pressing against her skin and telling her in its own way - hurry. Even the most arrogant and hardened of warriors knew better than to argue with a warning from the gods. And Buffy Summers was one of them.

There had been many times in her life when she had cursed the hand she'd been dealt in life. Raging against the First of her kind, the mages that dared create one such as her, the Powers that allowed such a thing. It was ironic that in the world her anger painted black and white, never had she once damned the demons for being what they were. Of course, duty and ignorance had driven her onward. She hated them because it was her life they were invading, her friends they were hurting, her people that they were killing, but she hadn't and couldn't condemn them for being what they were made to be: predators. They were just bigger and badder than humans ones; ones that lacked the delicate sensibilities that came from humanity. And over the years, time had taught her that even the worst of demons couldn't match human cruelty on a bad day. Perhaps that was why vampires were considered on the worst supernatural threats; there was enough memory inside the host body for that taste of malice to linger. They were what they were made to be. And so was she.

Seeing the gleaming metal and grey spires that reflected the quickly retreating sun, Buffy slammed on the gas. Target in sight and resolution in mind.

~*~*~*~*~

There was one perk to being a Slayer that most people never heard about, time. Slayers had an innate sense of where to be and when; something inside guiding apparently mundane decisions: do I patrol to the north or south first, which demon do I chase when a group breaks up, leave early or be late for my nighttime adventures, is the demon lair the creepy warehouse/cave/crypt/tunnel/miscellaneous dark and gloomy hole on this block or the next, go left or right. Back in another life, Giles hadn't mentioned such an ability; he had been too preoccupied with the strength, speed, and cramping thing. Or maybe he didn't know; the sense of timing had developed over the years. There probably hadn't been any Slayers that lasted long enough to let the esteemed Watchers Council in on that tidbit. 'Losers,' the teenager inside her whispered, and the older version couldn't help but agree. Regardless, Buffy was grateful as her path rose from within the clogged and contorted streets of New York City. It would have put a crimp in her dark and mysterious hero persona if she'd had to call and ask for directions.

Night had fully fallen by the time Buffy reached what she thought was her endpoint, just another brick and concrete apartment building in a city made of mortar and cement where people climbed over each other to live. She pulled into one of the numerous strategically placed alleyways surrounding the building and slid off her bike. Taking a moment to stretch and pull off her helmet, the Slayer surveyed the area accordingly. What struck her the most was a black S.U.V. with tinted windows parked out front; memory told her she had seen that particular vehicle before. Finally it came to her, the night with the Kungai demons; Mr. Bad Ass CSI had driven that car to the scene.

~*~*~*~*~

Something Like Six Months Ago – New York City:

"Ask Isabel to get a message to Buffy."

Buffy handed the man her card. While he had taken the opportunity to discern the tiny print in the illumination challenged environment, another shadow joined the dozen that wrapped around the alley. Like the gargoyles that watched over the houses of the holy, the Slayer perched on a ledge jutting out from the side of a building. Blonde hair hanging forward, bright tresses unseen in the night, her eyes peered at the man standing below. He was frozen, hand reaching for his back pocket. His eyes spoke to her, sad and determined and righteous; they were fighters' eyes, soldiers' eyes. Why else would she have risked so much with a simple gesture?

As she lurked, he turned his head this way and that, looking for something that wasn't there: a demon or a savior. Not having found what he was searching for, the man's brow furrowed as his lips moved in silent conversation. With a final shudder, he quickly grabbed his dropped gun, shells, and tools; there was no way to clean up the effervescently glowing powder that was drifting around and sprinkling the place with color. He didn't look back as he climbed inside his vehicle.

Afterwards Buffy couldn't help but wonder if that last shiver had been because of the cold outside or terror at the unknown monsters hiding beneath the world.

~*~*~*~*~

"Yeah, I guess it's safe to say I know that car," Buffy spoke into empty alley.

Throwing off the hold the flashback had wrapped her in; the biker chick hung her head gear on the handle bars and lifted the flap of her saddlebags. From within she drew out _Hide_ and _Seek_, placing them in their special hidden sheath at the small of her back. The leather harness wrapped around her lower torso and allowed the knives to be crossed while the hilts rested above the left and right sides of her lumbar region. To anyone who wasn't well practiced with that type of sheath, good luck getting the blades out without slicing themselves up. Armed, and hard to believe, more dangerous, the woman moved away from her bike, knowing the intrinsic protections wouldn't allow anyone to touch it. The rushed feelings of earlier in the day had abated, but the Powers (This entire set-up freaking reeked of their influence!) wouldn't have warned her if something serious wasn't happening here. Having daydreamt for long enough, Buffy walked towards the building, thoughts of what lay ahead, for all of them, on her mind.

It seemed fate wasn't quite done with her and Mac Taylor just yet.

~*~*~*~*~

After making that call Mac had allowed himself a moment and pressed a hand against the glass that separated him from the world. Even though it was theoretically summer in New York, during the night you could tell how hard April grasped the hand of winter. Still, most long time residents would laugh themselves sick at the thought of the forty plus temperature being cold. It was a moment to be weak, to be overwhelmed, a moment to be a man first and leader second, a stolen moment between heartbeats and the beginnings of breath. As the surface under his palm cooled, the feeling of serenity that overtook him was alien; it was a contradiction to the anxiety and paranoia of a second before. What had changed the situation so much that his stance relaxed and his muscles unclenched?

The answer came in a flash of intuition rather than knowledge. Her. She had. She changed everything. The girl made of sunlight that dwelt in shades. She was the god-touched child: weapon of Menhit, the Lady of Slaughter, beloved of Hella, the Queen of the Lower Realm, incarnation of Skatha, the Mistress of War and Wisdom. They cast a reflection upon the earth and a warrior had risen from the dusk. It was something he knew, a heaviness in his bones that told him. She would help them. She would make it better. Logic be damned.

Then the moment was over. Mac lay down on Sheldon's lumpy and not all together uncomfortable couch to get what sleep he could. The rest of the world would keep; now was the time for waiting, for hoping, for longing, for the dreaming of dreams. Dreams of laughter on the shore of sorrows, birth in the decimation of life, silence in the cacophony of war.

~*~*~*~*~

Just as the final rays of sundown had lulled him into slumber, the playful beams of morning teased him into wakefulness. The sight of the sun dappling the room with mirages of freshly picked apples shocked him. Mac couldn't remember the last time he had gotten anything near ten hours of uninterrupted sleep; it was hard to believe that Sheldon or his phone or anything hadn't woken him up sooner. Knowing that his respite was going to cost him, the CSI took advantage of whatever time he had left, using the facilities, checking on Sheldon, and ordering breakfast to be delivered for them. Almost an hour passed before the messenger service showed up with the meal. As Mac opened boxes and set the food out on plates, a battered but refreshed doctor stumbled his way into the kitchen like a new born puppy looking for milk. The out-of-character comparison resulted in a slightly upwards tilt to occur at one side of his mouth.

Blinking rapidly, Sheldon squinted ferociously at his boss. "Hey, Mac? Is that a smile on your face or did the crazy from last night affect me more than I thought?"

~*~*~*~*~

Breakfast went well, if slowly. Mac was impressed at how well his friend worked around the broken rib and wrist. In fact, the man seemed downright chipper. The whistling was starting to annoy him though. Before he could question the newest mood swing, the blare of his ringtone interrupted. Cautiously eying the still eating doctor, Mac got up and answered his phone. The conversation that followed was loud and brutal; they'd sicced Stella on him.

After spending ten minutes listening to her rant and begging forgiveness, the two finally got down to the meat of the call. Mac was not at work for the third day in a row; the brass didn't like it when their underlings failed to appear during the investigation of a serial killer. He had gone in for a few hours each day and was kept updated via Stella and Flack. All they had was some new information on the previous victims. Sighing, the retired Marine promised to be in tomorrow to deal with it. Today, he was going to be getting Sheldon's statement and playing nursemaid to the stubborn man. Stella said she'd hold down the fort and tell everyone he'd be taking care of the doc; the others were anxious to see him, wanting to know their comrade was alright. They disconnected and went on with their days: Stella to herd geese… uh – scientists, and Mac to tend a flock comprised of one pig-headed lamb.

'This is way I shouldn't get too much sleep,' Mac thought to himself, 'I get my animal metaphors all mixed up.'

Hearing the giggles wafting from the kitchen, he abrupt threw himself down onto the sofa.

"It's too early for this shit."

~*~*~*~*~

Talking to Sheldon had taken most of the day. And his patience. At least until Mac realized that the man was having a strange reaction to his pain medication. Another call and the solution was at hand: lower the dosage. 'Thanks. You really needed four years of med school to figure that out.' Wait an hour and behold: a calm and lucid Sheldon Hawkes of your very own!

They had spent a while talking about what happened and the different options available before making a decision. It was the best one they could come up with. Unfortunately, the report that Mac was going to turn in about the incident basically amounted to: due to cerebral trauma suffered during the attack, the victim in unable to remember any useful details at this time. Which, he suspected was going to over about as well as his explanation of what happened at that crime scene a half-year ago and why the murder investigations were never solved.

~*~*~*~*~

Six Months, Five Days, and Sixteen Hours Ago – New York City:

Mac was grateful to be alive. He was grateful to be alive and terrified out of his fucking mind about what had happened. The whatever-the-hell-it-was, demon thing, had taken his nicely settled snow globe view of the world, inverted it, shook it, and somehow added bolts of scary lightning before setting the ornament back down in his brain. The discordant maelstrom was making him nauseous and pissing off. As he sat in his department issued vehicle, the luminescent shine of fingerprint powder glittering on his face, dried slime and other fluids warping his clothes, bruises encircling his neck and flakes of blood coagulating on his cheek, Mac was grateful to be alive. But did she really have to leave him to clean up the mess?

Steeling himself, the CSI got out his car and headed for the precinct doors. Pass the officers behind the desk, left, down two doors, and he stepped into the bull-pen area. The detectives' reactions were not complimentary at the least.

"Mother of God!", "…like he was run over…", "Don't know what went…", "Who is that…", and his all-time favorite, "Freeze!"

In the confusion that followed his entrance, Mac was unable to find the particular detective he was looking for. Luckily, Don had so such problem and his blunt appraisal of the situation had the rest of the crowd scattering away like bouncy balls. His friend's opinion of the story Mac told him was summed up in one word.

"Bullshit. You want me to believe that you come in here looking like you got up close and personal Mike Tyson on a good day and the reason for that is you fell."

The sarcasm in Flack's voice was thick enough to go caving in. As the accused opened his mouth to defend his position, the accuser spoke over him.

"I'm sorry, my mistake. You were distracted by a bum outside the crime scene, forgot where you had placed your kit, tripped over it - spilling magic science dust everywhere, and landed on your flashlight. Is that about the size of it?"

Thanking whatever gods looked out for hapless librarians and helpless crime lab bosses, Mac rejoiced at the stench that rolled off him. It hid the smell of gunpowder, which would make his story even shakier, and he had used his personal firearm not his service weapon. There was no way IAB would let him get away with emptying a clip and not having a reason.

"Yes."

"Bullshit."

And around they went again.

~*~*~*~*~

Sometimes Mac wondered if Don was still angry at him for not telling the truth, and they had both known it wasn't the truth. The detective didn't have any other choice than to except Mac's explanation; there was no crime to report or evidence to collect. All they had was the word of a CSI that wasn't saying anything. It was getting to be absurd how often that situation came up with his team.

Leaving the past in the past, the older CSI checked on the younger one. Sheldon was currently dozing on the overstuffed armchair that was perpendicular to the couch. A combination of pain and the reality of the situation had knocked away the last effects of his medication. While he was relieved the man was focused on the situation; Mac couldn't help but a wisp of sadness for the doctor's lost joy, however chemically created it was.

Not for the first time today, he wondered how long it would take his mysterious guest to appear from the unknown. He assumed Buffy or Isabel or whichever personality she was going with today, would call him when she reached the city for directions to a meeting place, but then, it had been awhile since his cloak and dagger games in the service, maybe the rules were different. If the rules applied at all.

The light tapping on the door woke both men up; Sheldon from his nap and Mac from is ponderings.

It seemed destiny had decided to play after all.

~*~*~*~*~

Even without Slayer speed and stamina, Buffy found the security of the building a joke. Someone had left a fire escape half down, within easy reach if one climbed up the dumpster or could jump higher than three feet. Her hair might be tangled and dirty from the trip, but the smell of garbage was havoc on her enhanced senses. From there was instant roof access. A few rudimentary breaking and entering skills later, the alarm was disabled and the lock picked. Buffy was in the building.

The stairs from the roof spilled out into the uppermost floor; not giving any of the apartments a glance, she headed directly for the elevator. Why not be lazy when she could? It was inevitable that at some point she'd be running full out to save someone, herself or otherwise. One pale finger topped by a short nail reached out and pressed the button. 'Level five, something wicked this comes.'

The gentle ding of the opening doors heralded her arrival to an empty hallway. Shrugging her shoulders, Buffy stepped out the metal box and walked forward. Her eyes caressed each door she passed, and each was discarded until she reached the fourth one on the right. Here was the Holy Grail, the road to Eldorado, the Deadman's Chest. 'Ach, okay, I get it. No more pay-per-view movies for Buffy, I swear. Just leave the cryptic shit alone, okay self?!'

Sparing not another moment for her internal critique, Buffy rapped upon the chamber door.

And did nothing more.

~*~*~*~*~

If this had been any one of Hollywood's latest horror films, the click of the deadbolts sliding open would have echoed loudly in an empty hallway. The slightly battered door would have opened, ominously creaking, to reveal…nothing; a blank slate to entice the unwary into the devil's canyon, where there's a place at the table for the dead and damned. However, Buffy Summers was not unwary nor was she one of the teen slasher queens so beloved by the scary movie genre.

Instead, a group of twenty-somethings went stampeding down the hallway, loudly arguing as to who could consume the most alcohol before passing out into a dazed stupor. Her focus momentarily distracted by the clamor, the Slayer missed the sound of locks being undone. Her head jerked forward just in time to watch the door open a foot and see the man blocking the entrance. She could have forced her way inside of course, but it wouldn't exactly inspire the right type of atmosphere.

Mac Taylor didn't look much different than the last time Buffy had seen him. The strict bearing was still there, the uncompromising line of his cheeks and jaws remained unchanged, but his eyes were a little more watchful, his pale skin leeched away by increased exposure to sunlight. She couldn't understand why the proud man in front of her had called Isabel, desperate and panicked less than a day ago. Finishing her examination, Buffy returned her gaze to the cop's waiting one. 'Time to play.'

~*~*~*~*~

It struck Mac particularly hard that she was unchanged. The months had not added any wrinkles to her skin, her face was as guarded and unmarred as it had been in on that night long ago and in his thoughts ever since. Was that part of being what she was: a fighter that time could not take, a soldier that age could not claim? Was she to forever remain this way, a warrior encased in stone, as eternal and immutable as death? His second look denied his claims; the blonde hair that had adorned her tiny frame was now the brown color of freshly turned earth, the soil of a newly dug grave. Perhaps her skin was not a map of her experiences, but her eyes told her story in its stead. 'The thing about stories,' Mac thought, 'was that they were rarely as straight forward and linear as they appeared on paper.'

As he had been scrutinizing her, she had done the same to him. He wondered what she saw: an old man, a cop, a human being. Was she cataloguing the same differences he had? Mac stood still, allowing the intrusion, as she had done for him. Finally done, their eyes met and held. The moment quickly passed, and Mac started to speak.

"Don't invite me in."

His mouth snapping closed, the CSI puzzled over the words.

"What?"

"Don't invite me in."

"That's what I thought you said."

Quiet stretched between them.

"Why?"

"You do realize that's two of the five, right?"

"The five what?"

"Exactly. What, when, where, who, and why. The five W's. And one H. Can't forget the how. Isn't that the cop-geek code or something?"

Mac took a second to consider if bringing the unhinged woman in was a good idea, but he didn't really have a choice, not if he wanted to protect his people and his city.

"Why shouldn't I invite you in?"

Maybe if he ignored the craziness, it would go away. The snort that almost escaped his nose gave him his answer, guess not.

"There are bad things out there that need an invite to get in. As a rule I tell people don't encourage the baddies to come in and rip the heart out of their chest cavities, but do what you want."

The weight of that response came close to staggering him; in his mind, past crime scenes flashed through memory, flickering images of viscera and gore. Had he ever seen anything like that? A list of people he had invited to his home quickly came forward; had he ever invited something like that in? The mental spiral was interrupted by a voice.

"Freak the hell out why don't you. Jeez. I might have been exaggerating slightly, but I'm not kidding about verbally asking someone into your house. Don't do it; it's a bad idea. So, pull yourself together. We've got a mystery, or several, to solve."

The sardonic tone concealed the tiny amount of concern that colored her words. Nevertheless, it did the trick; Mac straightened his spine and backed a few steps away from the door. This method met Buffy's approval as she walked in and closed it behind her. The ensuing bang startled the forgotten man on the couch; Sheldon began to tip dangerously forward. Before Mac could even begin to move, she was there. A deceptively tiny hand and wrist steadied the tilted doctor until he righted himself. Before his brain could sensor his words, Sheldon spoke.

"And what shoulder, and what art, could twist the sinews of thy heart?"

Loud and unreserved laughter accompanied the blush that spread over the man's cheeks.

~*~*~*~*~

As a Slayer, the two different heartbeats were audible from the hall. Each one resonated a separate melody. Mac's was the loud thump-thump of marching drums and helicopter blades; blood rushed quickly through the chambers, a mantra of 'protect-live-try' being sung on a microscopic level. The other one belonged to the doctor Mac had briefly mentioned in his call. Buffy could hear it in his heartbeat. Each thump was measured and precise, a precious gift that echoed in breath and blood.

So when she had seen the beginning of his fall and the pain it would cause him, she had darted to him, uncaring that her speed was inhuman. His spontaneous, and rather aptly derived, question had moved Buffy with its humor.

The memory of the last time she had laughed like this eluded her. It was light and freely given; a gentle cascade of rain against the desert in her soul. Looking at the embarrassed man whose shoulder she still carefully held, the Slayer crouched down to meet his reticent eyes.

"And when thy heart began to beat, what dread hand? And what dread feet?"

As she spoke, her hand moved from the man's shoulder to his broken arm. The weight and meaning of the words eclipsed both of them, suspending them in an honest moment of fortitude and understanding. A final whispered sentence passed between them, unheard by all except the two.

"Are we tigers, healer?"

~*~*~*~*~

Mac had been amused by Sheldon's slip of the tongue, seeing the normally composed CSI blustered by Buffy was a treat. Then the girl had settled down to his level and spoken back. Somehow, he wasn't surprised that she knew the poem; it suited her. Her laughter had been unexpected; he had never heard a thing like it. The air between the two had become heavy and charged by something Mac couldn't name; a pressure seemed to build until he couldn't hear what either one was saying.

It was over; the relieved popping of his eardrums and his sigh broke the moment. Seeing both man and woman staring at him, Mac declined to comment on the situation, choosing to walk over and sit in the arm chair rather than encroach on their space. As he leaned back against the cushion, his thoughts shifted into clarity, playtime was over. 'Time to be serious.'

~*~*~*~*~

As his boss began to explain what had happened, Sheldon Hawkes was delving deep into his own psyche, trying to find the source of his uncharacteristic reason to the woman who'd stalked into his apartment. Barely seeing her entrance, stalk was certainly the right way to describe her movements; they were purposeful and languid, contradictory efforts of awareness and danger mixed with relaxation and blatant challenge. Sheldon found himself lost in the dance that was her motions and demeanor; the conversation going on passed through him without registering, so enthralled was he with his subject. As a doctor, his life's goal was the study of the human body, spotting abnormalities, selecting the symptoms that were relevant, knowing what was wrong and how to fix it, and even though he had decided to study the human body in death rather than life, it had made him observant. So when a young, albeit beautiful, woman came prowling into his line of sight that was too quick for his eyes to track, Sheldon knew something was up.

It wasn't just the speed. The way her skin fit snuggly over muscles gave him a good idea of the underlying architecture, and therein laid the surprise. There were extra muscles in certain places along her legs, arms, and spine; they weren't readily visible unless you were actively searching for them. A convoluted gesture of her wrist leads him to suspect that the ligaments of her joints were more flexible than normal. Although the events of four days ago were forcibly lurking in the vague mists of don't-want-to-remember-and-can't-forget, the conclusions he had drawn were making keeping those memories at bay more work than it ought to be.

Feeling the impending, incontrovertible intrusion of reality, Sheldon closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. A different memory, one that was treasured and slightly bittersweet, rose within his minds eye. Just like that, the present was forgotten as the past washed over him.

~*~*~*~*~

Spring 1994 – New York City:

Sheldon kept pace with the older doctor and listened closely as he escorted him through the maze that was the hospital's hallways. Instructions for orientating himself and checking on patients were mixed in with warnings about emergency situations like natural disasters. If he hadn't already been accustomed to the brisk recitation of information after five years of med school, the stream of data might have overwhelmed him. The next hour continued in the same fashion: walk, walk, pause and hear explanation, walk, walk, repeat. Finding even his stamina waning after the lengthy tour, Sheldon was glad that his mentor had led them to the man's office.

The doctor motioned for him to take a seat, and he had to hold back an enthusiastic nod at the idea. They sat in silence for a few moments before the man behind the desk clasped his hands together and stared hard at him. Uncertain as to what the man was looking for, Sheldon stayed quiet.

"As your mentor, it is my job to help you be the best doctor you can be, and on our way there, hopefully, keep you from killing too many people in the process."

The blunt statement drove some of the color from the younger man's face. He hadn't heard it put quite that before, but the description was scarily apt.

"I will be doling out advice when I think you need it and giving dressing-downs when I know you need it. If you have questions, I'll be happy to answer the intelligent ones. Out of necessity, I have to answer the stupid ones too, but be forewarned, I'll do my best to make you feel like an idiot while doing it."

This wasn't going at all the way Sheldon had expected. The doctor was almost caustic in his address, but there was a very real interest in his eyes, directed at him. Sensing that it wasn't time for him to ask or say anything yet, he didn't. His eyes remained fixed on the man across from him, an almost visible aura of steel appearing within his mentor as he spoke.

"There are plenty of things I could tell you right now: some of them encouraging, others less so, irrelevant platitudes that you'd forget as soon as I'm done telling you. So, instead, I'm going to do something else. If there's one thing I want you learn from me, whether you make it or wash out, is this: we all panic."

The older man stopped to give Sheldon a chance to absorb that statement.

"At some point in their career, a doctor is going to freeze. Before, after, or in the middle of an operation, during a check-up, looking at test results, or giving a consultation, the truth of what you do is going to catch you. And it's going to disgust you. Because, as needful as doctor's are, we traffic in pain and death. It is something we touch and let touch us every single day. We can't and won't be able to help everyone. At that moment, you're going to forget everything you've learned throughout the years; you'll want to run away and never see another patient again."

Sheldon had straightened up in his seat, wondering what the doctor was trying to say.

"Now, this is the important part. Don't. Whatever you want to do in that second, do not do it. Instead, close your eyes and picture a skeleton. Build it, naming each bone as you go and each muscle, vein, and artery after that. When you're done, open your eyes and finish your job. You'll see your reason for doing this every time."

His mind spun frantically trying to place this piece of advice; it was absurd, to stop and go off into la-la land while working on a patient. There seemed to be little logic in the statement, yet the way the older man had imparted it was almost reverent.

"You'll see, Sheldon Hawkes. A good doctor always does."

And there was nothing for him to say.

~*~*~*~*~

Sheldon employed that trick now, the one that had saved his sanity and the lives of other people so many times. His mentor had been right, all those years ago, because when he opened his eyes, he saw it. Beyond the flesh, beyond the damage, Sheldon could see the person inside begging for help and relief; how could anyone deny that? After transferring to work in the morgue, he had thought those days were over, but when performing his first solo autopsy, just as he began to press his scalpel into cold skin, there it was, the sense of confusion, fear, sorrow, and freedom that settled next to him. Whatever his job title, doctor, coroner, CSI, this would never change: he sought the healing of spirit, maybe even more than that of the body.

Slowly, the skeleton in Sheldon's mind took form, gained muscles, organs, and skin; a living monument to people long gone or dead. The sight that greeted him when he turned away from his statue was like something out of a painting. A wise king, fierce in experience and age, sitting opposite his peer, a young queen, iron-wrought by the fires of circumstance and battle, each one impressive in their own right.

Since when did he look at people and start seeing works of art?

~*~*~*~*~

Buffy had spent enough time with victims and the disbelieving to know when someone was in attendance or not; the man, Sheldon, was one of the latter. For whatever reason, he'd abandoned the moment to fly to some distant corner of his mind. She hoped he found whatever he was hunting for. Briefly, a flash of envy coursed in her veins, a hot feeling of wanting the luxuries that others took for granted, but then it was gone, dispelled by the acceptance and wonder of being who she was.

"Listen, Isa… Buf… what do you want me to call you?"

There was no amusement in his voice; Detective Taylor was obviously ready to get down to business. It worked for her.

"I'm always Buffy."

It was cryptic, completely truthful, and didn't give him the answer he'd been fishing for.

"Okay, Buffy. What do we do?"

"First, tell me about the attack on Sheldon; that's way you called me after all."

He proceeded to go over the few facts that he'd managed to pry out of Sheldon, as well as outline the man's injuries and where he'd been found. At the end of his speech, Buffy had one question.

"What makes you think this is my kind of thing?"

"I saw a man I know and respect, reduced to curling up in a corner, unable to do anything because he thought he was crazy! Something he saw, something inhuman, has gotten so far inside him that he can't trust his own mind!"

The vehement defense of his friend didn't dissuade her questions.

"What exactly, besides the mental breakdown, did he say that made you think 'inhuman'?"

~*~*~*~*~

Mac wanted to throttle the girl. Right now, he didn't see a fighter, he saw someone who was indifferent to his quest and standing in the way of getting the bastards that hurt one of his family. Luckily, his baser instincts held him fast to his seat, preventing any sort of offensive movement and attacks, except verbal ones.

"He was floating."

Teeth gritted, the three words sounded like the hissed accusation that they were. Buffy was oblivious to his anger, quirking an eyebrow rather than responding in kind.

"He was floating in mid-air with nothing holding him up. Things appeared and disappeared from nowhere."

Seeing he her attention focused overtly on him, Mac went on.

"He remembers hearing words in a language that wasn't English, different colors of light flickering with no source. Now, tell me that doesn't sound the least bit strange to you."

His words were a challenge, and both knew it. While the woman processed that information, he frowned to himself. His behavior was almost juvenile, getting upset instead of trying to persuade using evidence to support his theory. Anger that Mac hadn't noticed before this bubbled up inside him. Tracing his way back to the origin, he found a resentment at the warrior in front of him. He wanted to, and sort of did, blame her for opening his eyes to the other side of the world, bitterly protesting his further disillusionment. It wasn't rational, but there it was, born of fear and helplessness, striking at the available target.

"Have you gotten any similar cases? Or reports of people seeing the kind of lights he described?"

Knocked off his internal tracks, Mac's reply lacked the rancor of his earlier ones.

"Do you know how many addicts, homeless, and regular crazy people walk around this city each day? The amount of reports we get about stuff like that is unbelievable…"

His sentence trailed off as he began to consider how many of those cases might have been real incidences that the police just didn't take seriously; it was depressing to think that people had more than likely died because cops didn't know about monsters. He hadn't known, and even after he did, he hadn't done anything with the information. A sudden thought occurred to him; one that should have been apparent from the beginning, a connection that he hadn't made. The only excuse Mac could think of was the lack of sleep, food, and his personal involvement had clouded his normally clear vision. Oh, and a hefty dose of terror, can't forget that.

"There might be something. In the past week, two bodies have turned up, blood drained and not present at the scene, patterns drawn in an unknown human's blood on the floor; both were found in abandoned warehouses, naked, with no evident reason for such prominent blood loss. And they weren't the only ones; my people found evidence that this killer has been to Europe, India, and Australia, accumulating six victims internationally and another three from Washington and California before coming to New York. Including the two murders here that's a total of eleven people, all of different nationalities, ages, occupations, sex, and religion. The only thing they all have in common is blood type, O negative."

"You think Sheldon was supposed to be number 12."

"It would be a pretty big coincidence if he wasn't."

"There are two things in this world I don't believe in: leprechauns and coincidence. And the first is the one I'm not sure of."


	4. Chapter 3: Color Me Once

Chapter 3 – Color Me Once:

Disclaimer: Do really need to say it again? I don't own BtVS or CSI:NY.

AN1: I know. I suck for the lack of updates. Sorry about that but thanks to everyone who stuck by anyway.

The bar was exactly what you'd expect. Music low and natural, wind and string instruments and gentle croons, illumination flickered in all parts of the room, leaving no dark corners or illicit niches; the lighting was dim, dull representations of fractured moonlight. No mirrors or art decorated the walls, unremarkable but for the lacquered wood finish. Chairs of different sizes and shapes gathered around tables spread far apart; the floor was uncomplicated bare concrete. To one side of the room, a long mahogany counter stretched its arms to touch both walls. Metal shelves filled with bottles of various colored liquids were bolted to the wall behind it. There was one area cleared of any obstacles or furniture; a single iron staircase led to the club's upper levels. All in all, it was just another average demon bar. No loud noises or bright lights to irritate enhanced senses, no dark corners for enemies to jump out of, places for all kinds of bodies to sit, beverages secured as best they could be, a space for dancing or the usual brawl, and an easy to clean floor, sluice whatever blood or bodily fluids away and you're done.

Buffy didn't pause as she walked into the room; no one looked up or noticed her entrance. Here she was just another demons looking to play or fight or mate or do whatever demons felt like doing. The only difference between her and most of them was that Buffy, like the demon behind the bar, could pass for human. Fangs, spikes, extra limbs, and strange pigments kept the others locked in the shadows cast by the fringes of humanity.

As Buffy walked towards the bar, her senses stretched themselves like a lazy kitten and trotted around the room bringing back smells, sounds, and aura for her to deal with. Her vision was fixed on the stool in front of her, not wanting to give the impression that being in a room full of demons made her apprehensive. Demons, her included, could feel weakness or fear from over a mile away, better than sharks with blood really. Coming into a place like this reeking of nervousness; you might as well hang a sign around your neck saying free food. That was true for humans or demons. Buffy wasn't afraid, but she did believe in being cautious, hence the sensing thing.

The gravelly tones of several Polgara demons, huge muscled fighters but a little lacking in the smarts department, were complaining that spawning season almost here, how bad tempered their females were going to be, and what the males could do to keep out of their way. And really considering the female Polgaras were larger then the males, it wasn't foolishness on the guys' parts to plan ahead. A few vamps tinged her radar as they sat and sipped red liquid from clear glasses; generally speaking, vampires preferred human bars where they could walk among the sheep, not demon ones where they were considered easy prey. One table in middle of the room held a clan of diggers, the demonic equivalent to Tolkien's hobbits. They ranged from two to three feet tall and loved dark underground spaces, creepy little scavengers responsible for more than one death in subway tunnels. Other random species were spread out, growling and hacking, gesturing with extra arms and antennae, just having fun.

Scouring the room complete, Buffy returned her attention to the bartender with silver eyes and ordered a Slayer Special. That request told the server and any patron that happened to overhear two things, that a hunter was here and that she didn't plan on attacking anyone; if no one attacked her and her drink was served up, it let the hunter know that the owners and patrons were good with her presence. Two bottles were slammed on the counter and emptied into a tumbler; the bartender slid the glass across the wooden barrier towards the girl. Smiling, Buffy brought the mix up to her lips and chugged a mouthful. A Slayer Special was mostly vodka with a very special chaser of holy water; a combination that any demon would find unpleasant. The truce lingering in the air, everyone returned to their previously average nights of their supernatural lives, ignoring the brunet non-elephant in the room. She was just another one of them, after all.

It took three hours and a half-dozen embarrassing gyrations on the dance floor with various demons before she found what she was waiting for. A tall auburn haired man was leaning against the bar and chuckling as the tiny Slayer was forced to avoid the cloven feet of her current dance partner who was too drunk to have any kind of skill in that area. It should have been horrific or ironic, depending on your taste in humor; the tiny human girl clutched in the monster's arms as he pulled her strings like a doll for him to play with. Instead, they were unremarkable, just two demons out for a few laughs and a good time. A graceful twist had no one re-evaluating their opinion of the scene as the doll pirouetted away from her drunken captor. Before completely retreating from the dance floor, the doll took one last look around and executed an exaggerated bow in the direction of her partner. Then she was gone.

Buffy loosened her stride as she made her way to the man that had laughed at her earlier. His eyes had no choice but to take in the aggressive tilt of her hips and the predication with which she placed her steps. It was a power of its own, this walk. An utter feminine certainty that she was gorgeous and wasn't it your lucky night to be in same room with her attitude. She watched as his smile slid off his mouth and his face became slack; sometimes Buffy couldn't help but think this was even better than kicking ass as the Slayer. The rush was almost the same, but at the end of the night, one was infinitely more satisfying. And no, she wasn't going to tell anyone which, a magician never reveals her secrets. Hopping into the barstool next to her enthralled prey, the Slayer snapped her fingers smartly in the man's face.

"Done with your hero worship, yet?"

"If I say no, are you gonna hit me?" A mortified expression quickly flitted over the man's countenance as he instead glared at the girl in reproach.

"That's a mean trick, Snapdragon."

"I thought it was pretty funny, Leo."

The man, codename Leo, turned away from the Slayer and signaled the bartender's attention. His tumbler of amber-tinted whiskey arrived in silence and stayed that way. Finally fed up with the cold shoulder, Buffy let out a huge sigh. Men could be so touchy sometimes.

"I'm sorry, Seth. I shouldn't have used my evil feminine wiles to turn you into a pile of mush. But you started it! You laughed at me first!"

Seth smiled at the petulance in his friend's tone. Normally she didn't have a care for anything beyond her Slaying; banter hadn't even been on her radar last time she was in town. Oh, he knew she was probably here searching for some demon or another, but seeing her take time to be Isabel, to be Buffy made him happy. He just wasn't going to tell her that just yet. Hiding his threatening smirk, Seth spun to look at the brunette.

"Yeah but that was pure chance! I happened to benefit from being in the same area as your humiliation; completely innocently, I might add. You deliberately set out to embarrass me. That's why I'm mad to you."

Deciding that was enough, he took another sip from his drink and started to count the bottles on the wall, waiting for the girl to cave. And she would, he didn't doubt. Flicking a glace out the edge of his eye, Seth knew he'd won when her nose had slightly crinkled up. She looked just like a cat about to sneeze when she was contemplating apologizing, unbelieving that something so common would happen to it. 'Eighty-two bottles of demonic toxic sludge on the wall…' The sound of a throat clearing interrupted his innovative musical talents.

"Let it never be said that a woman can't change her mind. Your argument has swayed me; I might have been a tad out of line. So… I'm…sorry."

Seth's vivacious and slightly maniacal laughter interrupted the rest of the speech she had planned. A snarl almost slipped past her lips when Buffy realized the jerk had tricked her. He hadn't been upset at all! If she knew her friend - and he was her friend, she trusted him wither her precious secret, her identity - he was happy that she was out of her

all-killage-and-no-playage streak. The sweet smile that stretched across her face would have been a warning, if the man had stopped laughing long enough to notice.

"I'm sorry that you have no self-control and the attention of a kid in pre-school."

Abruptly the amusement was cut off. Surprisingly having the tables turned on him didn't upset Seth that much.

"Meow, Snapdragon. Kitty's got claws."

Staring at each other in a parody of gunslingers at high noon, the two friends both broke the contest at the same time, giving into the giggles that spilled out of their guts. It felt good to give to the moment, to put the newest bad guy aside and just remember why she fought so hard and gave up so much. It didn't last; these things never do. All we can do is enjoy them while they're here and treasure them when they're gone. Reality waits for no one, not even the superheroes.

Mirth was slow to give up its grip on the duo, leaving queasy stomachs and aching jaws behind. Even after the howls stopped, goofy grins till leapt across their faces. The other demons in the establishment ignored them. Picking themselves up from a metaphorical puddle of humor off the floor, Seth and Buffy resumed their seats and began with the grown up talk.

"I needed that."

"Yeah, you did."

Seth nodded sagely at the Slayer indicating his agreement. Her incredulous look almost set him off again, but he was a grown up now and he had to act like one, which means: repress, repress, repress! Snapping out of her daze, Buffy raised her right hand to her ear like she was talking into a phone.

"Pot, this is hypocrisy calling. The natives want to know when they can have their Bracken clan leader back."

The droll tone with which she delivered the speech was ruined by her sarcastic snort at the end. Seth blushed as his demon form came out; creating an interesting blue tinge on his green skin that matched his spikes. The demon in question rolled his red eyes at the Slayer's remark. While it was true that he was in charge of his clan, that was nothing compared to what his friend did everyday. As he shook his head and went to correct her, Buffy interrupted him.

"Don't sell yourself short. You do good work, Leo. Really."

The belief in her voice shocked him. After needing her help to keep his people safe from Kungai demons awhile ago, the Bracken had been afraid she didn't think he was strong enough to lead anymore. To hear her say otherwise was a relief bordering on improbable, something Seth hadn't realized he'd needed so badly.

"Why do you call me that? Leo, I mean."

Now it was her turn to be shocked. He didn't know if it was because of the question or that he hadn't tried to contradict her. Which, he admitted to himself, he would have if he had the smallest thought she'd let him. A few minutes passed before spoke again.

"Why do you call me Snapdragon?"

The Bracken frowned at what he considered an evasion. He didn't have time to reply as she went on.

"Think about the moment you started to call me that. There was a second when you saw me so completely that you immortalized it forever, for good or bad. It's the representation of a bond that we share."

"What moment was it then?"

Buffy reached out and grabbed his hand, entwining her pale fingers with his green ones. What a contrast they made.

"Remember when we first met? You'd been doing the college thing in D.C. and I was checking out whether some politician or another was actually a blood-sucking demon. I was patrolling when two vamps attacked me. They were easy to dust, but while I was dealing with them I heard a something running away. I followed the sound until it led me to the caves where the rest of the vampires had been taking their meals. You were one of the captives; the vamps hadn't been able to tell you weren't human. I let them out while the vamps were fighting with each other. They all ran away. Except you. You stayed to make sure I was okay, too. I could see how scared you were, but you stayed anyway. That takes a lot of courage, Seth. So, I called you Leo the lion."

If Seth had been more in touch with his inner female or had had one more drink, that story might have made him tear up a little bit. Luckily for everyone's sanity and his reputation, the Bracken demon just sat there with a dumbstruck look on his face. Opening and closing his mouth a few times, he practically choked on what he was trying to say in his haste.

"When you rescued me, you were ferocious like a dragon, but you're so little, I just couldn't picture a dragon being so tiny. Then you did your quip thing and I knew you were a snapdragon."

Half way between indignation and flattered, the Slayer's words were slurred when they came out.

"That was way more succinct than my version. And a lot less sentimental. Damn demons, always trying to show me up!"

"In that case… Bartender! Another round for me and my friend here! We're drinking to demon victory!"

Used to such antics and worse, the silver-eyed demon-man sedately plopped two more whiskeys in front of the pair and wandered off. Two hands, one green and one white flashed out, grabbed a glass and chugged. Slamming the glass back down on the counter, the victory shouted.

"Ha! Demon victory my third nipple!"

Giving the Slayer a strange glance, Seth grumbled under his breath about divine warriors that thought they were so special because they could beat poor uncoordinated Bracken demons in a drinking contest. The Slayer just rested her head on her palm and teasingly watched as he complained.

Several minutes, a few glares, and the promise of a rematch later, the evening's histrionics were finally over. Buffy grimaced as she brought the conversation onto more serious things.

"Have there been any rumblings lately? New powers in town?"

The last traces of laughter were replaced by lines of concentration as Seth considered her question. This was way the Slayer was here; she was hunting some new foe.

"Not really. Everything's been kinda quiet since your last visit…"

His voice trailed off as he remembered something from a few weeks ago. Two of the older members of his clan had complained that none of their suppliers had any chicory bark. It hadn't interested him at the time and it still didn't…

"Chicory."

The venom behind his words grabbed the Slayer's attention. She had never heard Seth sound like that.

"Chicory? You mean the tree?"

Furiously shaking his head, he appeared to bounce back and forth between anger and ambivalence. Anger seemed to win for the second time.

"No. Chicory bark. There isn't any in the city."

"Fuck."

Chicory bark wasn't particularly dangerous; it was good for pain relief and causing slumber. However, if chicory was used in conjunction with several other herbs it made a damn effective invisibility spell. The medicinal properties of chicory worked because the bark made you forget that your leg, joints, head, whatever hurt and that you weren't tired. It basically prevented you from thinking about something. This made tracking someone down pretty difficult when they used chicory for cover; even if someone knew something, they wouldn't remember what they knew. Based on the way Seth was acting and the fact that every store was out of the stuff, she had a horrible inkling about those effect of the spell. No way had a newbie got close enough to dose the Bracken leader; that meant the spell must be blanketing the entire city, messing with people perceptions and memories. The only reason Seth had been able to tell her anything was his own innate abilities and fortitude.

"It's probably redundant at this point, but do you remember anything else?"

For a moment the Slayer thought he might triumph again, but her life wasn't that simple.

"Remember anything about what?"

This was going to be a long night.

~*~*~*~

Buffy has spent another fruitless hour trying to get Seth to break the spell again. Sick of the attempts and the Bracken complaining of a headache, they both called it quits. She called one of Seth's people and waited her them to come and collect him. Tired and puzzled, the Slayer departed from the club soon after.

As she walked towards her bike, intending to find someplace to crash, Buffy pulled out the knife Byn'vth had left for her and twirled it between her fingers. The streetlights completely avoided the blade, banished from sight, allowing it to slip like a shadow through the darkness, unseen and treacherous. Stopping half-way to her destination, an aura of careless and puzzlement emanated from the tiny brunette. Even in her apparent stupor, the deadly weapon clasped in her hand never stopped its lethal and bewitching dance.

"Come out; come out, whatever you are."

The Slayer's whisper hooked the attention of her stalker, forcing it from the nearby doorway into the light. It was one of the demons that had been at the bar with her and Seth earlier. Preparing for an attack, Buffy tensed the muscles of her forearm, ready to release her precious gift for the purpose it was intended, to kill. Raising its hands, the orange demon with six eyes nodded at the knife in her hand.

"I know of you, Slayer. They say you don't hunt all demons, only the very bad ones, the ones even the rest of us don't want around. They say you are friends with demons, even help them. They say you have earned the respect of some of the deadliest demon clans. They say you're one of us. Are you everything they say, Isabel?"

With each sentence the demon had taken another step closer, never letting its arms fall to its sides. As she adjusted for this new position, for a brief second, light flickered off the metal of her blade. A surprised look crossed her aggressor's face.

"You really are everything they say. The weapon in your hand amply proves that, a mark of favor from the Clawed Flight tribe."

Hard part over and decision apparently made, the demonic oompah-loompah sat down on the curb. It raised its head to stare at her.

"I have information for you."

The smile it flashed her showed off two rows of sharp pin-like teeth.

"And it won't even cost you anything."

~*~*~*~

Her reflection looked back at her from the mirror. The ups and downs of the night were no where to be seen, the woman in the mirror as unchanged as the vamps she fought. Her best source, and friend, in New York turned out to be a bust. And then, her demon in freaky armor showed up to save the day, information wise. Whoever had attacked the doc and killed those people weren't after other demons. If anything, from what six-eyes had told her, the killer thought demons were unclean. Which brought a bunch of new possibilities into the mix and eliminated others, the spell and the kind of planning needed to pull it off demonstrated a level of intelligence beyond what most demons were capable of. She didn't trust the demon that gave her the heads up, but his knowledge fit with the little that she knew. Hawkes hadn't played victim number twelve in the killer's dramatic scene and no one had been sure why. From the slight tingle he gave off to her senses, Buffy was willing to bet one of his parents or grandparents had been a little less than human, making him unclean and worthless to the bad guy.

But how had the killer known? Unless you were psychic, had some special mojo, or were a Slayer, there weren't a lot of types that could match that kind of sensitivity to detect a nonhuman ancestor at least two generations back. Similarly, the invisibility spell was less invisibility and more a cloaking one, a magical you-see-me-not sort of deal. That explained some of the inconsistencies the detective had told her about: the bloody symbols the police couldn't discern and not finding any witnesses to the crimes. It was also limited to anything human, and if she used Seth as an example, demons that could take human form. That was how the orange demon was able to tell her what her friend couldn't. The real question would be how well her Slayerness would shield her from the effects of the spell. Buffy hadn't forgotten anything yet… she didn't think so. Great, now she had a freaking headache.

Buffy allowed her thoughts and suspicions to stew as she climbed in the shower; the gentle spray of the water cocooned her in an embrace of warmth and comforting sensations. It was a luxury that the Slayer didn't often afford herself, out of self-flagellation or to avoid the scars that littered her body; she didn't know which. Feeling her fingers begin to prune despite her enhanced healing, the woman turned off the water and slipped out from behind the plastic curtain that hid her nakedness from the world. Humans were funny like that she'd noticed; they used thin layers of cloth and fabric to protect themselves from the badness of the world and were always confused when it caught them.

Conscientiously not thinking about her current case, the Slayer grabbed a towel and wiped the trickles of water running down her frame away. It was an automatic chore that was usually finished quickly, but today she lingered. Her fingers traced the scar on her neck that Kakistos had given her, smiling as she remembered what her pain and blood had bought; a chance for a new and longer life for the Slayer called after Kendra. Just a few inches above her belly button was the diamond shaped mark whose twin rested on her back, a memory of the near death and impalement she'd suffered for the chance to decapitate her opponent. There along the back of her thighs were the claw marks she'd gotten from the reanimated guard dogs of the necromancer she killed; all sorts of nasty infections had set it, leaving a permanent reminder that Slayers weren't infallible to the same germs that plagued humanity. Finally her hand stopped at the near perfect circle of inch-wide cuts wrapped around her left shin. That last one was no one's fault but her own for not looking where she was going while chasing some demon through the woods. Instead of slaying, she ended up caught in a bear trap; her strength had easily ripped the metal apart but embarrassment had kept her from telling anyone about the incident. There were more scars of course; however these were the ones that drew her attention right now. Each of those scars were memories of hard won victories, the kind that took more than Buffy thought she had to give. A thousand drops of blood and seven pounds of flesh for the triumph of humanity, the long evolving and unchanged children of the gods.

"That better not be a fucking omen."

The Slayer directed her comment towards the ceiling, presumably to the PTB that kept sticking their noses in her business. Her side trip down memory lane aside, Buffy finished up in the bathroom and exited into dark room beyond. She didn't bother turning on any lights, choosing to collapse onto the bed and into slumber instead.

~*~*~*~

She smiled as the sun shone on her face. The man across from her laughed and tossed a grape her direction, bouncing the projectile off her cheek. With a shriek of fake outrage, the woman launched herself over the picnic basket and food between them to pounce on her lover. The two rolled over the grass, playing and pining and staining their clothes until both were panting from excursion. They turned to face each other, ignoring the mussed hair and flushed skin, just two people in love under the bright blue sky. Nothing could be more perfect.

"You're an Angel, you know that?"

The dark haired man smiled at her, daylight giving his brown eyes a new depth that couldn't be seen at any other time. He carelessly shrugged a shoulder.

"Not really. That's just what you want to believe."

A hint of amusement and distain colored the words, making the woman pause. Her skin was sickly and wax-like in the light that made him look so good. Her blonde hair was dull and limp in the calm stillness of mid-afternoon. Comparing the two of them, the woman couldn't help but ask.

"What do you see in me?"

The man chuckled and tapped her nose with a finger.

"Redemption. Salvation. Freedom."

Before she could chase down the hidden meaning in the words, the woman froze as the sun quickly fell from the sky, encasing the lovers in the dark. While she had been busily with staring at the horizon, the man rolled over and stood up. Noticing her companion was gone, the woman glanced around for him. It would have been better if she had never found him.

The night did things to her lover, not good things. His smile was sinister in the dim light, and his eyes were black and sparkled with cruelty. The casual shirt and pants he'd worn earlier were replaced with black leather and crimson silk. It was a monster, and she didn't know what to do.

Slowly, the woman sat up and maneuvered onto her feet under the malevolent gaze of her watcher. She turned to head back to the tree they'd had lunch under and nearly cried out. One hand came up to cover her mouth and smother the screams she was trying to hold back. Her mother was lying on the blanket, silent and solemn. But the immobility wasn't enough to hide the terror and pain that haunted her, even in death. There was so much death, so many dead. Family and friends and enemies, all hanging from the tree as their bloody and broken bodies waved at her in the stirring breeze.

"Do you like your present?"

The sweet whisper had no place in the gruesome scene; it was a mockery of the suffering that they had endured. But she was weak and didn't know what to do.

As the blonde looked up at the thinnest sliver of the crescent moon, she thought that that was her greatest fear: not failure but helplessness. That she would be too afraid to even try to do anything. That one day life would cripple her and leave her the mercy of those who had none. She never thought today would be that day.

Cold hands wrapped around her shivering form, not for comfort but for domination. Never letting her eyes fall from the moon, the woman waited for the retribution she knew was coming.

"That's not the way it happened."

A calm and determined voice broke the tableaux. Her gaze was drawn back to the tree that had held so such tragedy only to see its branches were once again free of the dead. The body of her mother was gone. Instead, a man with dark, sorrowful eyes and mocha skin sat cross-legged near the trunk with his head perched on his hand as he stared at her. The arms that bound her didn't move or acknowledge the interruption.

"What do you mean?"

Her question was a prayer, the plea of a child for mommy to make the bad things go away.

"You aren't remembering it right. Your fear and uncertainty is making the horror of your past into a tragedy. Just see the monster for what it is and everything will work out the way it's supposed to."

"That doesn't sound like happily ever after."

"It's not they all took an express train to eternal damnation either. Sometimes you gotta choose which battle you wanna fight. Others you just hold on and fight until you can't anymore. Then you get up and kick ass."

An awesomely executed judo throw had her attacker slamming into the ground in front of her. As the vampire without a soul jumped up to return the favor, he paused. The dirt and grass stained white dress the blonde had worn earlier was gone. Instead, she was covered by a primitive skirt and breast band, both decorated with teeth and claws of demons. Her skin shone with the bright fury of stars, and her hair was twisted into braids that fluttered and taunted him. Here in the night, she was in her element. He never stood a chance. A stake left her hand and buried itself in his chest, leaving only ashes to be disbursed by the wind.

The midnight warrior walked over to the man that had helped her and hauled him to his feet. Together they left the clearing and walked out of the park into the large metropolis ahead of them. Eerily, neither spoke, and no one walked the streets. The journey continued until they came to a warehouse. Through the grimy windows, several figures were crouched around a motionless body. As she crept closer, the woman noticed she wasn't followed by the man. He stood still, staring at something she couldn't see.

"This is the end of the road for me."

She hadn't expected him to speak.

"No it's not."

The automatic retort slipped out. He just smiled at her.

"I played my part. This is what I needed to show you. Now it's your burden to carry."

A frown creased his lovely face before he spoke again.

"I'm sorry about that… there are rules and the Slayer's got to walk alone."

"You helped me."

"And you're going to help me. It seems like the least I could do was help you exorcise some of your ghosts."

Buffy laughed.

"You really don't know much about the supernatural, do you? That was a vampire, not a ghost."

As the two turned and began to go their separate ways, she turned around and said one last thing.

"Thanks Sheldon."

~*~*~*~

After hours of dealing with his bosses and media and the DA and a dozen city VIP's Mac Taylor was not in the best of moods. Indeed, the nagging threat to the people of New York and one of his own put him squarely in the upset, pissed, cranky person category. There was no new evidence or any real incident report from the various other places the killer had apparently visited; it was like nobody had noticed dead people popping up all over the place. That was competency for you.

Hawkes wasn't back at work yet and wouldn't be for awhile. Flack was spending his day off watching over the doctor and trying to track down information about the group Val Boren had worked for over the phone. He was grateful that the man was willing to stay; Don Flack was someone who wouldn't hesitate when it came to protecting his friends. That assurance was the main reason he had come into work today and avoided being fired for not showing up. One corner of Mac's lip turned down as he thought of how useless his being here really was. If the head CSI had any doubts that Stella could handle his job, the efficient way she'd run the lab in his absence buried them about six feet under.

Mac had carefully looked over all the tests and analysis run while he was gone. All of them had been double checked and verified. So while there wasn't anything new, no one had overlooked anything either. He took a moment to wonder if Buffy had found anything. She'd left the apartment saying she wanted to do a little investigating of her own. Nothing he'd said persuaded her to do otherwise or take him with her. Not that the scientist really blamed the girl, in her shoes he wouldn't want a civilian, cringing as he thought of himself like that, messing up his case. That didn't mean he wasn't anxious to find out if she'd learned anything.

As he scanned the same report for the third time without seeing it, Mac decided to go and get some lab time of his own in. With that in mind, the ex-marine straightened up his desk and left his office. There were still several boxes of more unusual tools that had yet to be tested against the cuts on the victims. Maybe he'd get lucky.

~*~*~*~

"And maybe pigs can fly."

The blatantly sardonic tone indicated just how moronic the scientist considered himself for thinking he'd get lucky. After a decade of working as a CSI and his time in the police academy and the Marines before that, he really should have known better. As Mac went to place another tool on the negative pile, his phone rang. He was really starting to hate that sound.

Tossing his lab coat to one side of his office with none of his usual regard, Mac unlocked his uppermost desk drawer and drew out his service pistol and back up weapon. He hurriedly but correctly secured the two guns in their holsters and doubled checked his work. Satisfied, the CSI grabbed his suit jacket and half ran out the door. One brief stop to collect Stella and Danny, then all three were on their way to another potential crime scene. Sometimes, it didn't day to work in law enforcement.

As the early rays of Saturday morning washed over the city, the CSIs pulled up to another warehouse. Stella and Danny jumped out of the vehicle with their kits and headed towards the scene. The oldest took a moment before doing the same. The last thing Mac Taylor wanted after a day like this, preceded by a week of days like this, was another victim.

Yeah, the gods were smiling on him today.

Just before the crossed the fluorescent yellow division that separated dead man's land from the rest of the world, his phone gave annoying chirp he had never heard before. The caller id flashed the name Nix at him. Mac set down his case and answered. The conversation that followed was as brief and illuminating as always.

"There's another body. And we really need to talk with the good doctor."


	5. Chapter 4: Rise Above This

Chapter 4 – Rise Above This:

Disclaimer: I don't own it.

Tuesday – Presently in the Past:

How much work can any one person do in a day? With the limitations of being only human, there being only 24 hours in a day, and labor laws, Sheldon Hawkes could say a lot and not enough. Everyone at the lab and the morgue was exhausted and stressed and perplexed and growing increasing frustrated at the lack of progress. None could top Mac Taylor, of course, he seemed to be personally insulted by this case; the normally well hidden obsessive commitment most people mistook for determination had effervesced into a dark cloud of biting insects that followed the head CSI around, darting out and stinging the unwary or the idle. Despite all the tests being run and the analyses being performed, there was very little to show for it.

Most of the lab technicians were complaining about the lack of down time, in very quiet voices for fear of attracting their boss' fearsome attention. The CSIs were of a similar mind, although they had more sense than to utter such words or to let the thoughts become evident on their faces. Sheldon found the rapid pace and the orderly frenzy of activity combined with the faintest hint of an impending nervous break down brought to mind his days in med school. Perhaps that was why he had yet to go home, the nostalgia and training he'd accumulated while pursuing his medical degree had left with a far larger reserve of energy than that of most people.

But nevertheless, the time had come. It always does. His boss, who incidentally hadn't been home either, stopped in front of Sheldon's work station and glanced over the various sheets of paper filled with chemical formulae and complex graphics. The frown that never left his face entrenched itself a little before Mac spoke.

"Go home."

Before Hawkes could even begin to pull up any arguments, his boss continued. "Don't even try it. Go home, rest and then get back here, post haste."

Showing something that resembled common sense when faced with such an order Sheldon gracefully retreated, putting his stuff away and inclining his head to the other CSI before hanging up his lab coat and heading for the elevator. Dark eyes followed him until a silver curtain of steel and electricity hid the doctor from view.

~*~*~*~

We are hungry. We are hungry and we want. We want him. He is the one, perfect and pleasing. The preparations have taken longer than they normally would because he is special. Normally we do not attract much attention with our actions, but now we have no choice. So we must be careful. We want him. We are hungry. We are ready. He is ours.

~*~*~*~

When moonlight poured over New York City, it changed things. The hard edges and dedicated grime became less dirty and menacing. Streetlamps became beacons to rival stars and shadows spun beautiful mysterious shapes into manmade stone. It was a fantasy, an illusion, but when the light glittered and gleamed against the rising blackness, the city seemed almost sentient. It was a living testament of human arrogance, with all the attraction of doomed glory and jagged dreams.

New York was made for midnight, Dr. Sheldon Hawkes admitted to himself as he traveled home. Horrible things could happen in the coming hours, when people felt the darkness would better hide their misdeeds and sins. As a scientist, he knew that wasn't the case, of course. Bad things happened during the day as easily as they did at night, and whether it was brightest day or darkest night made no difference as to the mistakes that criminals made. It was almost comforting; satisfying the primal part of his brain that seemed to insist that monsters ruled after the sun set, to know that they could catch them either way.

Hawkes wondered if any of his fellow CSIs preferred working in the dark. The still and waxy figures seemed less real, less there, at night, without the light to make them more human. They could be shells in the dark, before they became people once more. It didn't change a thing for Sheldon. He spent much of his time up close with the bodies; so Hawkes knew – professionally and emotionally – that they were human. That was what had drawn him to this career field after he gave on being a doctor to the living, these sleeping houses, empty but aware, that needed his help. Their humanity burned, even through death, and Sheldon wanted to help them. The dead didn't lie easy, not for him.

Mac's order aside, Hawkes wasn't rushing home to get some much deserved rest. No, he was taking his time, pondering and observing, allowing the thoughts and happenings of the days to sink into his mind and settle. It was something the doctor had always done, as much a part of his everyday routine as breathing.

But today wasn't everyday, and sometimes breathing is overrated.

His musing got him all the way home; his building was directly in front of him before he knew it. Just as Hawkes had acknowledged the fact that his journey had ended safely at home, there was blackness. And nothing more.

~*~*~*~

Waking was surprisingly painless. It was less an awakening and more a returning of consciousness, really, accompanied by shifting perceptions and a slowly beating heart. The strangeness of that puzzled him. There was no lingering soreness typically indicative of flesh hitting pavement, no dull throbbing in his head to signal a concussion, and none of the dry mouth associated with most drug cocktails. Hawkes felt almost amazingly good, which rather worried him because people didn't just pass out from one step to the next with no warning symptoms or without outside help.

If his lack of injury was Hawkes' first clue, his second was probably his lack of panic. Despite the doctor's growing sense of wrongness, his heartbeat continued its steady pace. None of his muscles were tensed in anticipation and his breathing hadn't picked up any. He was completely relaxed. All feeding back into his nervousness and still affect his body, creating a rather nasty cycle that took him several minutes to break. When he managed to settle his mind somewhat, the scientist tried to think back to what had happened. To his utter frustration, he could hardly remember anything beyond his trip into oblivion. Except a vague impression of _run_ that had come just before the nothingness…

Maybe it was the conundrum of his current predicament that prevented him from trying the obvious thing, but eventually the thought occurred to Hawkes to try and move. He couldn't, of course. Not being particularly surprised at his discovery and somewhat reassured that something out this situation of going the way it ought to, the CSI took a moment to gather his courage and consider the truth. The most logical deduction was that he had been kidnapped. That same line of reasoning lead into the identity of his abductors: the same person or people who had committed the murders currently plaguing New York City. Putting two and two together and getting 'oh shit, I'm gonna die!' Dr. Hawkes knew a bad situation when he was in one.

Then he had to go and make things worse by opening his eyes and shattering the world.

Quickly slamming his eyelids shut, he began to pray. For the first time in his life, Sheldon Hawkes wished he were a coward.

~*~*~*~

Simple things came back first: the numbness creeping up his legs, the itching pressure on his back, his inability to move anything other than his eyes - regardless of the fact that he wasn't tied up. Memory, horrid and impossible memory, came last. And he saw them, his villains, his killers, again.

They had been human, once. Maybe. But their features, masculine or feminine, had since faded into androgynous – a faceless face of forgettable make and mold. Except that they weren't right, quite blatantly _not_, even then. No one was that average and symmetrical and disinteresting. They couldn't even claim the pleasant emptiness of the inanimate. He wished their eyes were empty. Instead, a reverent glee echoed in the manically lit orbs. Every gesture spoke of fervent belief and desire for… _something_. Some awful and life sucking thing, he was sure. Something too terrible for nightmares and too deadly for despair, it could be nothing less.

There were five of them, the never-human things. (It would be better if they had never been human because that meant humans couldn't become them.) Gender was nearly indiscernible, warped flesh defying conventional organs. Each one had bland grayish brown hair, colorless eyes that faked being brown, and not-pale, not-tan skin. They were all the same height, had the same muscles, and wore the same disgusting smile. It was a smile without lips, a jagged slash in the rolling skin revealing human teeth right down to the roots. And yet, even when Sheldon began to think he had been desensitized to one form, they all _changed_ slightly, continually making the revulsion that much closer to his surface.

Turning away from his abductors, hoping the clinical terms would distance him from this – just a little, Hawkes rolled his eyes to get a view of his surroundings. Another dirty, unremarkable warehouse met his gaze. Except, it wasn't, was it? He was going to die in this one. The thought the scientist had been trying to avoid thinking dropped into his consciousness with a vengeance. Death was always possible all the time, his logical side knew; having been a doctor and working in the morgue taught him that it came when you expected it and when you did, taking saints and sinners alike. But laying there, unbound but still fettered and helpless, on the floor his death was real, a tangible state that he could reach out and touch. He remembered a dream that had once plagued him, about Sid Hammerback performing his autopsy. It had been a nightmare in the beginning, disturbing and creepy, but now he chose to think of it as a dream. Having worked closely with the man, he knew that Sid would take good care of him, if the older man had to. Strangely, although nothing about this situation was normal, that thought brought some peace back to the kidnapped CSI.

Not knowing how much time had passed or where exactly he was, Hawkes still was aware that whatever the bad guys had planned for him, it would probably happen before the other members of his team noticed their doctor-turned-crime-fighter was missing. It was something they were going to feel guilty about if something happened to him, besides mere abduction. Mac and Don would get it most of all. Ever since his so-called accident at a crime scene months ago, Mac had been more careful of his team, not wanting them to go out alone or get themselves into dangerous situations chasing evidence. Don had a type of possessiveness about the CSIs; a lot of cops resented them for taking over scenes and having to follow some egg-heads orders. Their cop was buffer against all that, making it clear that anyone who wanted to mess with the scientists would have to go through him first. Don's determined and vengeful personality coupled with the Flack name was more than enough to stop most people from even trying. Mac and Don both considered the team their responsibility, and losing one was them was going to be difficult for both men. Not that he was dead yet, mind you, but the probability of said occurrence, given his current circumstances, was looking more and more likely.

Not that Hawkes was grateful for the interruption, because his dark thoughts were any less depressing and scary than his situation, but a sound like metal grating across stone jolted him from his daydreams. To his astonishment, and slightly shocked that he had any astonishment left, he watched as barrels, broken wood, and other refuse started floating in the air. Impossibly, the garbage sailed over one corner of the building, leaving the floor clear. There had been no strings attached, no magnets, or other trickery, only the casual breaking of the laws of physics.

This wasn't real. Couldn't possibly be. He didn't know what it was, but it wasn't real. Except it was and it was happening to him, wasn't it?

~*~*~*~

Now. Now is the time. What we have waited for, our destiny, now is here. We will feast our Master shall be fed. We shall take of all that is good and our Master rise. This one is ready. The moon is high. We begin. Now.

~*~*~*~

"Aren't you a lovely one? All dark hands and skin and mind. But it shines, you know? That glowing heart of yours blots out all the pretty dark."

Its speech was disjointed and compelling, all the venom of love's first bite. As much as Sheldon had desperately wanted to be in control of his body before, now, with the attention of one – all – of them focused on him, terror didn't do the emotions racing through his adrenal system justice. Movement has stopped as the five stood around him, waiting for some sign he couldn't comprehend. As he watched the shifting figures, the scientist couldn't help but catalogue features that seemed familiar. For a second the third one had Lindsey's dimples; another stared at him with this mother's eyes. Mac's tough and worn hands were crossed over a chest. What was this? Blind fear took over as they started forward with monotonous synchronicity. The fading tenor of Billie Holliday rang in his mind.

"But then, that's why you're here, isn't it?"

It wasn't real, the man kept protesting to himself. It's not real. His passive compliance despite his howling thoughts, not there. But it feels real. Every pervading second of growing disgust and helplessness turned hopelessness was all too clearly imprinting itself into his memory. Tainting him and promising to stay forever. Until all he could do was surrender to what was happening to him. Right now.

The fleshy hands, if not gently - at least non-harmfully, stripped him bare and rubbed foreign and bitter oils onto his skin. They lifted him up, arms like iron and stone and other unbreakable things. He was brought slowly, each step heavy and ponderous and fully of ceremony. Together, the five set him at the center of a grid of lines and circles that was all too familiar and arranged his body to their specification. When they walked away, Hawkes was glad that his last glance wouldn't include them. And it was his last glance. Help wasn't coming; there was no help against things like this. Eventually the cool, slick sensation beneath his shoulders and the back of his thighs filtered through his hysteria. He was lying in blood. From blood he came, and in blood he will leave.

It's almost poetic.

~*~*~*~

Four of the figures turned their backs to the sacrifice and walked outwards to the edge of the design each one towards a cardinal direction. The final one knelt and cradled the sacrifice's head in its hands. The scene was set. One man prone on the floor, supported by something Other, and four witnesses.

As one of them set into its circle, the shifting of its body began to cycle more rapidly, a painful liquidity to the unceasing transformations. At last, a voice emerged. "I stand for the North, commanding dirt and dust, strong and immovable. I am Algiz, the Elk of the Forest. I am Awakening and the consumption of all. Hear me and witness our sacrifice! As We will!"

The ground beneath the building shook with a localized earthquake. As the speaker continued, a sickly green band out energy began to hover over the center of the circle, like every disease that ever festered within skin; it remained stationary and menacing above the one innocent man in all of this. Almost regretfully, the tremors settled and silence descended for a moment. Recognizing their cue, together a new chant arose. "We are They. We are Them. Five-As-One. As We will!"

The next figure began to whisper before the reverberations had ended. "I stand for the East, holding forbidden knowledge and forgotten secrets, invisible and unrestrained. I am Dagaz, the Dawn that Never Rises. I am the wheel that comes full circle and the Sunset of Humanity. Hear me and bear witness! As We will!"

A vast pressure descended upon the room, forcing heads to bow and knees to bend. The punishing breeze swept across the sacrifice, delighting in the stuttered breaths that emerged from the blocked throat. Darting upwards and briefly dispelling the verdant ball previously called, the fickle grey stream settled around the green core, playing like lightning across the surface and warring against its captor. Again, the phrases were yelled. "We are They. We are Them. Five-As-One. As We Will!"

The third figure entered its circle. "I stand for the South, summoning flame and primal fear, furious and free. I am Berkano, the Burning Desire. I am the Birth of Abandonment and the deceiving lie. Hear me and become our witness! As We will!"

A dancing fire began to spin in the air, spiraling closer and closer before pirouetting away. It haunted him at the middle, bringing scorching air and unbearable heat. Tiring of its game, the tongues of fire melded into a vicious orange chain than slithered in between the grey and green, helping neither and provoking new battles. Rushing into the next part, they began. "We are They. We are Them. Five-As-One. As We will!"

Stepping into the last circle, the next evoked. "I stand for the West, containing destruction and unyielding force. I am Lagu, the Hidden Deep. I am the dreaming of heinous acts and the Withering Madness within. Hear me! Witness! As We Will!"

For long moments nothing could be heard over the roaring in their ears. Thunderous booms and the wails of the drowned repeated over and over, pushing against them and pulling them in. The sacrifice had never felt as small or fragile as before the perverted majesty around him. A cloud of blackest blue was born from the tempest; it joined the other colors, swallowing them all before ceding to swirl randomly among them. Once more, each one called out. "We are Them. We are They. Five-As-One. As We will!"

Into the quiet, the figure kneeling at the sacrifice's head spoke. "I stand for the Origin, keeping remembrance and spirit, divinity and immortality. I am Mannaz, the Shell of Mankind. I am the Denied Self and the mortality of lesser beings. You have heard us. Now We must prove ourselves worthy! By the blood of our victims, I cry to thee. Witness and be sated!"

The lines upon the floor began to glow. Red twilight fell on the sacrifice, blotting out even the sphere in the center as the ruby light flashed brightly. Slowly, sight returned as the ominous crimson changed into a cherry-black shadow of its former glory. Again the same figure started to talk. "The elements have come. They have found offering worthy. They shall aid us in our quest."

The figure looked at the sacrifice. "The rest is up to our Master."

Words spilled from five sets of lips simultaneously, their sound a cross between the harsh guttural sound of wild predators and pig Latin. The man shivered as unseen ice encased him. He could only stare into that giant blob of etheric energy than appeared unmoved by the goings on.

Finally the chants and invocations died away. The lone one at the center stood up and thrust his hand into the writhing mess of color. "Allow Us to feed for you, Master. Feed and grow strong, as Your birthing times gets ever closer."

Withdrawing the limb, a silver blade emerged in its grasp. The figure knelt down and pressed the tip of the knife into the sacrifice's chest. "This sacrifice is pure. It is untainted of soul and of honest intention. It seeks peace for the hopeless, and in doing so, it does Good. The heart is this one's strength. Take what is right, what is innocent, what is good, and make it Wrong."

In a swift stroke, the weapon cut into the man's chest, deep but not enough to kill, and scarlet fluid ran down his torso as the chest rose and fell. Confident in their success, the figures smiled, unknowing and unprepared for the explosion that rocked them as the first drop of blood hit the floor. The howls and screeches of disbelief were lost as the sphere of energy flickered and dissolved into sparkles before slipping away. A great sound of cracking entered the air as the precious design on the ground grew fractures and dissolved into nothingness. All Their hard work undone in a single drop.

Five beset upon the naked man, lashing out with fists and feet. The only clue as to what happened was their Master's voice. "It is unclean."

~*~*~*~

At some point it had stopped, Sheldon knew that. When their anger had run out and their fury gone dry, his kidnappers, those impossible things, had gone away. Away where and why didn't really matter. Instead of killing them outright, they left him here to die. The doctor suspected several of his bones were broken but could tell which, and the laceration on his chest was already beginning to clot over. So, immobile and unrestrained, unable to cry for help, they left to die of hunger or infection, whichever would work faster. Unless, of course, someone up there was all of a sudden into handing out miracles, the scientist was in for a sluggish ride into the other side. And given that miracles hadn't been forthcoming before now, he was going to have to side with precedent on this one.

When you're trapped in a warehouse, abandoned by your kidnappers, and lying naked on the floor, your thoughts tend to wander. They go everywhere, from hopes to fears, the future to past, those you love and those you hate, he reasons you were captured and why you were allowed to live. So it was no surprise that Sheldon Hawkes missed his divine intervention, read: miracle kicking precedent's bony ass. It wasn't until he went to scratch an annoying itch behind his knee that it hit him. Agony. His wrist was definitely broken. Disbelief surged through him as Hawkes realized he could move. And he really hurt.

Using his unbroken arm, the doctor managed to lever himself up to his feet. Still, naked but infinitely better now that his body was back in his control, he began a long, long, gimping walk towards the only door he could see. As the trek progresses, the CSI within him looked around the place that had caused him so much pain, mental and physical. It was perfectly ordinary, except for being immaculately spotless; there were no burn marks or stains from any of the elements conjured by his tormenters. Just little splashes of blood that marked one man's journey through hell and back.

~*~*~*~

It turned out that making it to the door had been the easy part. Trying to unlock said door with one arm was slightly more difficult. Only through shear aggravation and frustration did Sheldon triumph; fed up with the entire drama, he kicked out one foot and broke the unstable door open. Now nursing a bruised and splintered foot, in addition to his other injuries and his nakedness, he ran through out the building as fast as his faltering steps would take him.

The familiar dirty and polluted streets of Manhattan greeted him, a welcome affirmation that some part of the world was the same as he had left it. Wanting to get as far away as possible but not get himself caught up in more trouble, Hawkes cautiously headed around the front of the building. With a morbid joy and grim determination, the man looked around for a payphone or some other way to contact help. Nothing jumped out at him, which was a good or bad thing depending on your perspective.

Ignoring and being ignored by the homeless people for whom a naked, blood covered man was a normal sight, he continued on towards the sound of traffic and civilization. He thought primarily of his family and friends, his co-workers, as he traveled on. He about how nice it would be see Stella try to secretly mother him, Danny tease him about getting himself lost when looking for help, Sid covertly look over his medical records to make sure his friend is getting the best care, Lindsey bringing him a stuffed animal and homemade soup while he's in the hospital, Don promising him that they would catch who did this no matter what, and Mac clapping him on the shoulder when he finally returns to work. Those thoughts drive him forward, after he trips over a crack in the sidewalk and nearly falls, even after his hands and feet have long since gone numb at the temperature outside, they keep him going through the blood and tears he sheds and the pain he feels. He no longer sees where he's going; he just walks because he knows that's what they would want him to do, his family. He walks, and he walks until he has fallen and doesn't know it. He has fallen to the ground and his eyes close and he doesn't know anymore.

And the last thing he hears is someone shouting. "Call an ambulance! His guy's hurt bad!"

~*~*~*~

We are angry! Everything we've done - ruined. All our risks and planning for a failure! But it will be well. The desecrater will die, and We shall start again. A new sacrifice, a better sacrifice and our Master shall come forth!

~*~*~*~

He drifts in and out. He thinks he sees a friend from med school, Jason, but then it's all gone for bright lights and loud chirps and he's left again.

The next time he wakes up, he can't move. Then he's back in the warehouse and They are there and want him to die. They want him to die right like all the other, but he can't. Mac's voice talks to him and tells him to be strong, that he's safe and it's over. But Sheldon doesn't believe him and he's sleeping, like before.

They're all around him, his family. They're laughing and crying; happy he's back and said he's suffered. When the awful ones come, his family fights to keep them away. They all die, one by one, until its only him and he wishes he'd died first. But it's only a dream and his family really is here. They watch out for him. Mac is the sentinel, vigilant and serious. Stella is the mother bird, swooping in and tearing into those that hurt her children with beak and claw. Danny is the illusionist, distracting the enemy while sliding a noose around their necks. Lindsey is a clever strategist that sets traps and waits for them to be triggered. Don is the honor guard that never sleeps and always protects. They are his family and he is glad he gets to find them again.

This time is different from all the rest. He is awake and not mostly asleep. And he remembers. He is alone in his hospital bed. Then he leaves.

His apartment is the same as he left it, days ago. That was before. Before the new case, before Sheldon Hawkes became a case. There are bills he needs to pay clipped to the fridge. Mail he hasn't had time to sort through is scattered across his kitchen table. On the counter is a bag of rotted apples that he never got to eat. He throws them away and goes to lie down on his old, familiar couch and hopes his dreams will be better. They aren't.

He can't forget even though he wants to. He has never hated his ability to recall things before; it was a boon in his profession, both of them. But now, all he wants is to stop thinking about it and he can't because each moment is inscribed into his mind like writing into glass. And he's just as delicate.

~*~*~*~

It is a pounding on the door that rouses him from his non-sleep. Terror races through him because, he knows, he knows, he knows it's Them. They're back and he's not safe, has never been safe. The corner beckons and he goes to it, sinking to the floor and grabbing his hands in terror. Like a child, he tells the noise to go away, he's not home. The noise doesn't listen and then Mac is there asking him to open the door.

So Sheldon does and then it's back to the corner, except he paces his time because it's less childish. He forgets Mac is there until his boss is in front of him, asking him what was wrong. He doesn't want to tell; he doesn't want the impossible thing to get Mac too. But his friend is there, offering some kind of solace, and he does. He tells him, even though he shouldn't and even though he won't be believed.

But Mac does.

~*~*~*~

Sheldon can't say for sure whether it was sharing the burden with someone or starting to believe he wasn't crazy that made the last bits of panic fall from him. Ever since the doctor had awoken up in the hospital, there was an edge of fear pushing him past rationality. Mac has helped banish it and is looking out for him.

It turns out that Jason really had been his doctor and had taken good care of him. Now that his manic stage has passed, the CSI can feel his pains clearly. When Mac hands him his medicine and tells him he has a plan, Hawkes smiles, just a little, and accepts it.

The next day, after he talks with Lindsey, jokes with Danny, gets reprimanded by Stella, and lies to Don, Sheldon gets to hear Mac's plan. It basically boils down to: let someone else deal with it. The doctor can't blame him for that. His boss is perfectly capable of handling a lot of things, but this is a little beyond the scope of those abilities. Mac seems to trust this person, whoever it is, and that is enough for him. So, Sheldon is content to on the overstuffed chair in his living room while the ex-marine occupies the sofa and wait to meet the person that his boss trusts with his family's protection.

Oddly enough, whenever he looks back at that afternoon, he can't remember most of it. It was vivid and surreal while it was happening and Buffy, herself, was unforgettable. But still and all, the memory is interred with emotions rather than happenings. There is awe, disbelief, fear, attraction, embarrassment and a dozen other subtle feelings. She was beautiful and dangerous; Mac and the woman got along like house on fire. Or maybe it just seemed that way at the time.

What he does remember is the dream he had that night, about girl and an evil and helping the woman that God made to help them all.

~*~*~*~

They don't seem right for each other, him and her. Even in the daylight, their actions are rehearsed and fake, pretenders to a love that wasn't. He is the audience, coming in medias res, knowing what they don't and waiting for tragedy. It doesn't take long.

The sun sets and the waken figurines take on new life. Not better, but new. The man is seduction and damnation, death courting the head. The woman is a sad china doll in rags, a bird born without wings. He mocks her wishes and uses what they felt for each other to hurt her. Arms crush her to a cold chest and keep her caged. He revels in the agony her mother's body brings and laughs as each bloody form in the tree makes her weep. In a final act, the imposter brings his face down to her neck, pretending. Pretending to be the man he hadn't the strength to be, the lover he hadn't the care to be. He is the worse form of dramatic irony and Sheldon can't stand it any more.

"That's not the way it happened."

And the audience becomes a player of the play. Sheldon doesn't know why he is having his dream, but he knows that she is important. He knows that she is haunted by a past he can never understand. It doesn't matter, not tonight. This night, in this dream, he has the power to heal her and help her. So he does.

The weakness falls from her as if it was never there. Underneath a fake and hollow mask, the warrior born looks at the world with ancient eyes. Eyes that take him in and never let it go, that perceive and promise and mend his world.

They walk under moonlight, together and far part. They aren't lovers and maybe never will be, but for now they are in harmony. They walk the same path he walked from his hell, but there is no Good Samaritan to save him. Only blood that only he can see, leading them back to the place where he was reborn, once upon a time. He isn't surprised to see that it is a different place, somewhere he has never been because future isn't set. He can follow the signs but he didn't set the path.

She isn't surprised either. He speaks words to her that he doesn't understand. They have meanings beyond what he is meant to understand. He watches, in the audience once more, as her attention is directed towards the fight in front of her. There is a big part of him that wants to call out to her, but he doesn't. Can't or won't, he doesn't know. There is a power here, bigger than anything. It rules and governs and he doesn't understand how to play. Does he even want to?

But she is turning away from and he from her. A drum beats inside his ears and yells something to him. There is a whisper in the noise, something he is supposed to do, but he can't hear it. Louder and louder, until he feels like he's dying in this moment. Then she reaches for him and its over.

"Thanks, Sheldon."

The call is forgotten and he wakes up with her voice in his ears.


	6. Chapter 5: Whoever Brings the Night

Chapter 5: Whoever Brings The Night

AN: Still not mine.

The apartment was silent. There were no innocuous rustlings from fidgeting bodies or the comforting rattle of motion, just a silence that stretched long enough to swallow them all. Slouching carelessly across one end of the sofa, a brunette woman looked like someone that belonged on magazine cover for designer clothes; she had the poise that most models would kill for, contentedly and effortlessly drawing attention. It wasn't just her beauty, but something else as well, an aura or presence that couldn't be masked. A pretty illusion to be sure, tilting her head to the side revealed scars on a slender neck, old and hard-earned. They were such a part of her that it seemed she was born with them, integral and eternal, always there and always would be.

Lined up beside her like a jury of unwilling peers, two men sat much more uncomfortably. The older one was pale and dark-eyed bringing all of his stodgy militaristic persona to the front. It was his way, had always been his way; solider first and man second, trained and never forgotten. A great contrast to the seeming unconcerned woman to his right. Not overtly disjointed by the proceedings but perceptively out of his depth, he faced his judge head on. No compromises, no lies, just the truth and just now, a moment of unveilings and dealings invested in the dark.

Directly on his left was another man; this one of dark skin and lighter eyes. His face was a study in contradictions, confused yet focused, unsure and determined. It was a clinical observation of his that for all their unthreatening and calmly assumed postures, the tension of the moment existed anyway; there wasn't enough Prozac on the streets of New York to make this meeting, this war council, go smoothly. This was a war council, no mistake. Call it whatever you want but when three of toughest and scariest people you'd ever met decided get together and come up with a plan for how to deal with something, several flags were raised. Mainly the white one of surrender by whomever they were plotting against. So, there they were: the doctor, the solider, the Slayer. Lined up and shined up, a tribunal about to induct their newest member. The detective sat in the hot seat, separate, judging and, in turn, being judged.

The apartment was still silent. No one seemed willing to break the moment and begin. Maybe they all knew their lives would never be the same, after, and wanted to genuflect on that. Maybe they were all feeling particularly uncourageous, almost cowardly, at the coming dawn. Maybe they were all just puppets and their master hadn't yet decided to yank on their strings. For reasons unknown, the silence prevailed.

"So, yous want to tell me what's going on here or am I gonna guess? 'Cause, there's a killer out there mysteriously bleeding folks to death that I could be, probably fruitlessly the way this case has been going, looking for."

The three figures on the couch didn't look at each other. Mac spoke up. "I know what we're keeping you from, but this is more important."

Checking his urge to look out the window and see if the sky was falling, Don Flack felt his jaw falling towards the floor at his friend's vehement response that something was more important an their job. Instead of allowing such an undignified and unfiltered response through his tough-cop image, the detective raised one eyebrow in a sardonic gesture of 'go ahead, this should be real interesting'.

"I need to start the beginning. Six months ago, when we had those cases of people being turned to dust – something we could never explain, I lied to you about -"

"Technically, if you want to start at the beginning, you need to ago back a few more years. Like a couple hundred millennia." The woman interrupted.

A vein began to throb behind Mac's eye, he had no idea what she was talking about, didn't want to know, and was about to tell her as much when he was cut off for a second time. "And who are you again? I must have missed the part where a young woman, probably not even old enough to drink, got involved in a police investigation."

A lifetime ago, the Slayer would have been insulted by this cop's insinuations, but her temper and childishness had long since cooled and she recognized the provocation technique for what it was. Bringing up the best facsimile of her old California airhead smile, she looked at the man across from her. "Well, your friend was about to answer that question before you stopped him. I seem to recall my mother saying something about manners when I was growing up; yours apparently couldn't make the lessons stick."

"AS I was saying," Mac loudly interjected between Don and Buffy's stare-down and Sheldon's huffing laughter. "Don, you know I lied to you about what happened at that crime scene, but I couldn't tell you the truth. It's to unbelievable without proof, and I wasn't even sure I believed it - with the evidence trying to kill me!"

The others upon seeing Mac's tangible distress at the happenings devoted their attention to him. "She saved my life, Don."

The bald statement elicited several things in the stoic detective. Awe that Mac would admit to needing to be saved so readily, disbelief that his friend's life had been in danger, betrayal that the other man hadn't told him, and finally, confusion that somewhere out in the world was there was some bad thing that a girl could handle but an ex-Marine couldn't. It didn't make any sense, but he let Mac continue on.

"I had gone back out to the crime scene because I knew we had missed something. It wasn't until then I realized our perps were using the sewer tunnels to get around. The only way no one had ever seen them us if there was nothing to see. I had walked over to one of the entrances and was about to dust for prints when it happened."

Running a hand through his short hair, the CSI shook his head. "One second I'm staring at what I think is the key to solving our riddle and the next I'm lying on the pavement, back aching, yards away from where I had been. Then I see what had caused it. My first thought is that I am experiencing concussion or severe brain damage. But being in the Marines teaches you a thing or two about survival and while I had banged my head pretty hard, my imagination has never been good enough to come up with things like I saw."

He sucked in a deep breath before continuing. "It was huge. Easily seven feet, a dark brown color, fist-sized raised patterns of ridges across its face, and a horn protruding from its forehead. It was a monster, as real and grotesque as anything King or Lovecraft could have written. You don't have you tell me how crazy that sounds; I know. But I also know that I drew my back-up piece and fired a full clip into that son-of-a-bitch. It didn't even flinch, just charged right at me, lifted me into the air like I weighed nothing and was about to kill me."

"Impale would be the proper word, never a way I thought I would die. Lucky for me, as it was about to stab me, a noise came from the sewer behind it. I swear I saw fear in those alien eyes before it dropped me and started to fight with something else. The fight was… I can't even say because it happened so fast. That's not just shock talking by the way; their moments were too fast for my eyes to track. After it was over, I saw this tiny blonde holding a sword covered in yellow blood and a rapidly dissolving puddle of goo at her feet."

At this point, Mac turned and faced the now brunette haired woman. "That girl told me her name was Isabel Nix. I found out later she was also Buffy. I didn't know what those things were. I still don't. She told me I wouldn't want to know, and I believed her. She saved my life."

"I don't think ignorance is an option anymore." He delivered this line directly into her eyes, reaching levels inside Buffy that he couldn't have imagined.

Before anyone could say anything more, the Slayer straightened up and faced Mac, something like compassion on her face. "It was a demon, a Kungai, species-wise. One of many that exist in our world. Yes, demons are real. Monsters are real. Magic is real. That's the truth, gentlemen; the world that lives beneath your own."

And what the fuck, Don thinks to himself as he looks between the three of them. Mac appears slightly tormented by what he has experienced or what has been revealed but there's an openness to him, an honesty that wasn't there when the man had tried to sell him some logical bullshit story about falling at the scene and injuring himself. Mac's not lying to him now, Don can tell. The woman is an unknown, apparently capable of taking on beings of at least twice her size and strength; her eyes are jaded, frosted over by the things she's seen and done: killer's eyes. Cop's eyes, he thinks. His eyes, staring at him every morning from blue oblivion. You can't fake that. The doc hasn't spoken, but he looks resigned and a little sickened, like some of the victims that walk into his precinct, knowing they won't be believed because of what they do for a living or their attacker's identity as Someone important but trying anyway. Whatever you want to say about the other two, their reactions or experiences, for Hawkes, it's too new, too fresh, too utterly right there, to be anything but real. And deep down, when Don thinks about it, it's not that big of a surprise. He's been a cop for a whole bunch of years now and there have been things. Things that other cops won't go near, instinctually, things that went wrong or right against all odds, things horrible and deadly and inhuman. It's something he's thought occasionally, inhuman, but now it means more that it ever has. He wants proof, of course, tangible proof for his own eyes, but that's just a formality. There are some things he just knows, and this is one of them. Things that he learned under the light of stars that didn't shine and a house too cold to be a home.

~*~*~*~

Flashback – Eight Years Ago:

The scene was still fresh. There was no stench of decay, cool plastic skin, or hovering scavengers. It was a blissfully normal room in a fastidiously normal house. Just another average working family - it said something about the world that even being average wasn't enough to camouflage you from the bad things, there was that much misery waiting to go around.

It was so fresh. The fucking sheets were still warm and the bitter tang of urine clouded the air. There was something so deceptive about the messy bed and toys scattered about the room. Looking around at the purple walls and porcelain dolls that sat on shelves along each one, it could have been any little girl's room. Except, if was any room, he wouldn't be here would he? The dark blue uniforms wouldn't look so awfully out-of-place and devastatingly final against the colors of childhood dreams.

A chair was wedged underneath the doorknob of the closet. Countless pillows were shoved underneath the bed. There was an obvious stain where the little one had wet the mattress. Something had scared the kid pretty damn good. She had barricaded herself away from the monsters. Too bad it couldn't protect her from…whatever happened to her.

The girl was curled up with a blanket in the corner of the room, wedged between the bureau and the wall. With her head tilted to the side and eyes closed, you could almost believe she was asleep, simply exhausted and everything was a misunderstanding. It wasn't so. The coroner had said as much. 'Time of death less than an hour ago, maybe twenty, thirty minutes.'

Accusing eyes watched from lifeless faces as the newly made detective went over to her. It was his first scene with his new rank, and he refused to think it was an omen of the kind of career he was going to have that it was a suspicious child death. The hairs on the back of the man's neck stood up as the air shivered with repressed malice and a strange sort of hunger. Senses honed by years on the force fucking screeched at him: _danger, danger_. And still those eyes looked at him.

Clasped within the girl's frozen arms was another doll. It had blond hair and a wide smile on its feminine countenance. For some reason, Flack couldn't resist, even knowing it was against procedure, as he reached out and gently disentangled the doll from the child's grasp. It was warm. The heat of the body hadn't yet faded, and the doll held a sickening parody of life. Glass cool skin was flushed and humid. For a moment, they appeared to be sisters, the toy in his hand and the body at his feet. Foreign emotion struck him; jealousy washed over his psyche as he imagined being placed on a shelf and forgotten as the girl ran and played and thoughtlessly enjoyed the gift of automation, the ability to control when and where and how she went. The prickly emotion was replaced with buttery satisfaction as the girl became as motionless as she, another doll to treasure and place away in a special box to sleep forever and ever.

Shock, fear, and a little bit of instinct guided him as his grip faltered. The suddenly ugly doll fell from his fingers with a silent wail and the low murmurs of city personal and cries of parents ceased as glass shattered. Everyone turned to see the young, plain-clothes cop take a step back from the ruined visage on the floor.

Before anyone could say anything, a sputtered cough came from the corner. Medics rushed over, falling to their knees regardless of the glass, and quickly stretched the girl out to help her breath. Her parents' cries turned into vehement thanks and confused gasps.

He couldn't explain it. The doctors couldn't explain it. No one talked about it, and Don Flack got a mild reprimand for breaking procedure. The whole thing still gave him the creeps, even when he thought about the incident later. He never knew what happened to the girl, another than she was alive. And after the girl, Sarey, had come home from the hospital, she taken her mother's broom from the kitchen and knocked every single doll from their places and smashed them to bits.

~*~*~*~

"That explains some things."

The bland words were buckets of cold water thrown on Hawkes and Mac. Stunned and sputtering, one of the two finally manages to speak. "What do you mean, 'That explains some things'?! We tell you that monsters exist and you just accept it like that!"

"You want me to lie? Okay, I never thought 'hey, demons' but I knew there was something out there. Come on, you can't tell me you never thought it, Mac! Never felt that paper thin veneer separating you from an unknown danger, stalking you from the shadows and laughing at your fear. Why are you so shocked?"

For some reason, the detective's pragmatic dissection and practical approach to what he'd been told embarrassed the two scientists. In light of their friend's response, why had it been so hard, so unfathomable for them to accept the same thing with more words staring them in the face?

Once again, Buffy came to their rescue. "It's harder for the brainy types. They might be über smart but there's a disconnect between thoughts and instinct. Humans know, on a primal level that there is something bigger and worse than them out there, and they fear. Intellectuals can't just let sources of emotion go unexamined; they have to know the cause and most often it leads to a rationalization that keeps them from the truth. Norms are far more likely to just blank their memory of the entire event and move on."

It made a weird sort of sense to the men; as much as they have in common, a pivotal difference was there. For two, thought must come before emotion and hopefully before action. For the last, emotion was often the key to unlocking puzzles and divining action. Neither way was wrong; it just gave them different strengths.

"So demons, huh? Are these Kungai back for revenge or something?"

Seeing right through his blatant attempt to distract the other two men from their thoughts, Buffy answered. "No. I wiped out that entire nest, and Kungai don't use magic. They also don't need human blood, just their life energy, which is why the bodies turn to dust after getting stabbed."

Each man paled as they thought of how close one of their own had come to disappearing and them never knowing what happened. Sheldon grabbed on to something that had been bothering him and ran with it. "Magic? What I saw, that was magic?"

"Wait, Hawkes saw into something like this, too? Although that would account for the shitty 'I don't remember' excuse he tried to give everybody. What happened to him?"

Sparing the healer the experience of telling his story again and all of them another in depth Mac explanation, Buffy quickly summed up. "All those serial killings you've been having lately? Supernatural in origin, I've got some evidence on that. Hawkes was kidnapped by the baddies to be their next target or whatever. They are big with the mojo and seem to be interesting raising something."

"They kept calling me a sacrifice. They said that my heart was perfect. They would take what was good in me and turn it bad."

The simplistic sentences tugged at everyone, but it was the Slayer who got up and squished herself in between Sheldon and his boss. Gently laying a hand on his, she spoke. "That sounds about right. Purity carries an enormous value to higher level demons, ritualistically worth more than silver or gold. You are a genuinely good person, Sheldon, down to your bones. It's palpable. That doesn't make you a saint or perfect, because good people make mistakes like the rest of us. But you care, in a way that most people can't. That's why they chose you. Each one of their victims had the same kind of spirit to them. For you, it's your heart, your compassion. Val Boren knew about the supernatural and counseled those victims, often getting descriptions and identifying the demons in question; he saw more than most people. Maude Grey worked for the Vatican, helping to disperse funds to those in need."

"So they cut her hands. All the wounds are symbolic, a stripping of the quality that the perps find so important."

Mac's even tone broke into the little world Buffy and Sheldon had created. Don was the next one to interrupt. "How do you know all this? Where? I looked for days and the best I got was a vague job description."

"You weren't asking the right questions. Plus, Val was pretty well known in some of the circles I travel. As for Maude, there are a few priests in the know who were willing to open up once I told them the situation. The other victims probably have similar backgrounds, maybe not with the supernatural but definitely helping better the world. This is just a theory, but magic works in certain ways and patterns. Once you know enough, the pattern becomes obvious."

Don parried. "What circles are these? The occult? You telling me there's a huge group of people that get together on Wednesdays down at the bar and talk about the latest goat killing ritual. I don't buy it."

"No. Most people never see each other face to face, never meet to discuss what happened to them. They just know that whenever something is going down, they gotta spread the word, as far as they can, as fast they can, because eventually the right ears are going to hear it."

"And are you the right ears?" The cop sarcastically asked.

Buffy's reply was soft. "Sometimes."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Well, what could you say to that? The moment that comes when you finally realize the world is worse that what you always feared it would be and you've imagined some god-awful things, seeing the things you have. It's funny that even on your darkest, ugliest, most morbidly reflective and cynically bitter days; you were giving the world to much credit. And, damn if that isn't ever so slightly funny underneath all the irony and sadness.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"What are we gonna do?" The time for silent contemplation and internal dialogue is apparently over as Flack addresses the room. With this question, Sheldon and Mac both turn to look at the Slayer, wondering the same thing.

"We?" One carelessly groomed eyebrow rose above the other, as the brunette glanced over the three men. They couldn't discern what she was looking for as she snorted and mumbled quietly under her breath.

"How are we gonna find whatever oogity-boogity is picking off the few decent people in this city?"

"Oogity-boogity?" Parroting the detective's words back at him, Buffy stared at the newcomer.

"Buffy." There was a slight warning tone in the elder CSI's voice as he spoke her name, an echo that reminded her of parents and childhood and things long past.

"We aren't trying to step on your toes – don't start, Don," Mac interrupted the other man before could interject anything, feeling more and more like he was in charge of daycare than a group of crime-fighting adults. Just to be sure everyone was on the same page, he cut his eyes towards Sheldon, making sure the doctor wasn't about to express amusement in any way, shape, or form. Satisfied, the CSI continued.

"You've explained some things: victimology and a bit of method and motive, but what about the identities of the killers? What type of demons use magic like this? Is there anything we can do to help you neutralize them?"

Buffy could tell how hard a grip Mac was keeping on his emotions, and while she wasn't deliberately being difficult and antagonistic, she didn't know how much information the men in front of her could handle. Some things just had to be done, no matter how immoral or wrong they seemed. Time and trial, life, in general, had taught her that.

"There are several species of demons that can use magic."

It was the kind of vague non-answer Don Flack got from suspects all the time, and, if he didn't let those scumbags get away with it, the lady in front of him sure as hell wasn't going to either.

"Wanna try that again? This time with a little more conviction?"

Buffy shot an exasperated look at the detective and decided to go for broke. Even if they took the news badly, their entire police department couldn't keep her from doing what she needed to; it would just mean that New York would become one of those places that she couldn't return to without the risk of provoking a national manhunt. 'All I need is another Phoenix repeat, how was I supposed to know the cursed tree was a state monument?' Shaking her head out of the past, the Slayer focused on the present once more.

"Look. Here's the down and dirty. This isn't demons. It's humans; it's magic. Fucked-up kids playing Daddy's nuclear reactor in the back shed."

Yeah, they took that about as well as expected: disbelief and incomprehension. There wasn't a damn bit of shock left in them.

Sheldon was the first man out of his stupor. "You mean humans, regular humans, are capable of doing this?"

"Well it takes a certain aptitude for channeling energies and access to dark magic books. And a borderline sociopathic personality, obviously."

"Shame those aren't as rare as they used to be." Don's sardonic witticism joined two's conversation.

Deciding to act as though all this made sense and he wasn't about to start waving his gun around in a slightly hysterical manner until he got straight answers from the universe, Mac spoke up.

"So, what do we need to fight magic? More magic? A witch?"

"Any of you guys got a line on Harry Potter?"

Even knowing dark humor was Don's way of coping with the situation, Mac couldn't help but clench his fist at the other man's casual words. All of them were just too tense to live up to their usual standards of working together. This time, it was a woman who knocked the impending testosterone match off the tracks.

"Actually, we really want to avoid getting involved in an all out magic battle. There could some collateral damage."

Furrowing his brows in an overdramatic way, Mac politely queried, "What kind of collateral damage?"

"Are you that attached to the eastern seaboard?"

The dry words were a perfect counterpart to the serious nature of her words. Three jaws dropped minutely and six eyes blinked rapidly as the men processed.

"So, magic bad. Magic battle very, very bad." Mac choked on the statement as he uttered it.

"Glad to know you're keeping up with the class."

"Then what do we do? Let them go along their merry way?" Don shot up out of his chair in outrage. Buffy's answer did nothing to lower his increasing blood pressure.

"Probably not a stellar idea, demons rising, enslavement of the human race, world endage, all things you can expect when you get the bad guys run around unchecked. Might want to avoid that."

Seeing that the detective was centimeters away from attacking her, the Slayer continued more seriously.

"It's pretty lucky for us that most binding rituals don't require a lot of power."

The three men exchange bewildered glances. There was so much they no clue about. Magic and demons were real; maybe if they kept repeating to themselves, it would sink in. Mac decided to be the brave one.

"I'll bite - binding ritual?"

Snickering at the unintentional pun, Buffy replied, "Think of it as amputation… in the mystical sense."

"So you'll be able to do it?"

Sheldon quietly looked to the Slayer for reassurance. The woman looked at him for a few moments, considering his words. Then, the corners of her eyes crinkled in unwelcome surprise.

"Damn."

The word slipped out before Buffy had a chance to think about it. She hurried on before anyone could flip out.

"Most bindings are so easy because the person performing the ritual gets a little piece of the magic user to use. By taking blood, hair, or spit, it links that person to the binding. What is done to the sample is done to the whole. Even a picture can be used, although that takes more power."

"So, effectively, the less specific you are about the witch or warlock or whatever in question, more power is required to stop them. You can't be more precise than DNA, making bodily secretions the easiest to work with. Pictures can be misleading because people can share physical resemblances and not even be related. What about fingerprints or handwriting samples?" Mac had quickly drawn the random correlation between his work and hers.

"I've never heard of using someone's fingerprints in a binding ritual before; that's something worth looking into. Handwriting is better than pictures, but nothing trumps blood and the like."

"So what's the problem?" Not having forgotten her earlier slip, Don wanted to know what she'd thought of that complicated an already, in his opinion, ridiculous situation.

"Sheldon said these guys were constantly changing her appearances: skin and hair color, height, body shape, etc. While that could be caused by a glamour, a type of illusionary magic, I don't think so. They would have stuck with just one image. Which means, they have no stable visages or DNA to get a hold of."

The Slayer sighed quietly and rolled her head left and right to relieve some of the tension. While explaining about what and how binding rituals work, the problem had been bubbling in the back of her mind.

"And I don't have that kind of power."

It had taken a long time for Buffy to realize that she couldn't do everything. Slayers were strong and fast and powerful beings in their own right, but they weren't invincible. She certainly wasn't. Unfortunately, while Slayers had some magical aptitude, given how their line originated, there was a definite cap on their abilities. Major magical workings were way out of her purview. Something tickled at the back of her mind, a little bit of intuition that made her smile.

"I guess a little help in the magic department wouldn't be that bad."

"We're going to bring someone else in on this?" A dubious expression crossed Mac's face, "Who?"

"I know a guy."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

A Little While Later:

Life was good. The sun was clouded over and plenty of nice looking birds were walking by. There was no sign of any pursuers or righteous do-gooders on the horizon. He was just a man, strolling along in the big city, smirking to passerby in a decidedly superior fashion. Several had even crossed the dangerous, traffic-clogged streets to get away from the creepy man.

Despite his earlier assurances that no one was after him, the man still kept his more esoteric senses open, searching for familiar minds or auras, making sure he wasn't caught unaware. Just as he was about to turn the corner, a brutally strong hand shot out and grasped the back of his neck. His body followed as the arm attached to said hand yanked backwards and pressed him against the shadowy side of a building. This being New York, no one gave their interaction a second glace.

With the impact jarring his frame, the man looked deep into to hazel eyes. As he watched, the swirls of color reformed into unyielding tektite. Those eyes were unbelievably unfamiliar, sitting in a face that was so unchanged and so different then his memory insisted.

"Hello, Ethan."

Her voice was different, too.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


	7. Chapter 6: Let Me Be Myself

Chapter 6 – Let Me Be Myself:

Disclaimer: Not mine!

AN: I'm sorry for the long wait, but pchem and organic conspired to rob me of any free time I had. Thanks, Illyria for not letting me forget that I am a writer too.

Ethan Rayne wasn't a nice man; he didn't consider himself a bad one, either. Nice just wasn't something he aspired to be. Still, sadism and overt cruelty had never appealed to his taste. If Ethan was a slave to any particular flaws of character, it would have to be mischievousness, or self-gratification, or impulsiveness, or… okay, maybe there was more than one. Simply put, Ethan was a student and a study of chaos. Very few people really understood what chaos was; it was entropy, the breaking down of rules, law, and life. It made things interesting, gave the hope that someday it would all be over. It was laughing was as stars imploded and planets turned to dust.

These were the very traits that made Ethan Rayne such a dangerous foe and a powerful mage. It also had the tendency to make him more flighty than Dru on crack. He was unpredictable and ingenious, just the kind of thing you didn't want in an opponent. Humble, the man definitely wasn't. He was also preoccupied with the ghost in front of him.

As Ethan sat across from the placid brunette, in just another high-priced coffee shop in New York, he couldn't help but remember the girl she had been. Shockingly white-blonde streaks stood with its more red-tinted brethren in an audacious hairstyle one could only find in Californian youth; vivacious green-brown eyes had snapped with more than childish ire. Upon presenting her with a gown fit for royalty, his rather dim opinion was that she didn't fit the role. Ripper's Slayer seemed painfully youthful in the face of her destiny. A blind abandon allowed her to grip long gone school-age dreams. Yet the girl, counter-intuitively, always overcame her foes with a style and flair that was boarder-line over dramatic. Not that he was one to criticize the use and abuse of drama, the follower of Janus thought. He had been one of her dilemma-causing human enemies and former friend of her Watcher. It was delightfully ironic that he was more human than she was. He cared for himself, his survival – the most human of goals, and she went out of her way to risk hers. Divine Providence being what it is, they had ended up as the best sort of enemies, the kind you can always count on.

But then, neither of them were what they used to be.

It was human nature to change, willing or not, and the change was often long and difficult and irreversible for people like them. And Ethan Rayne never thought there would be a day when a white hat, a Slayer – no less, was 'like them'. Or is he like her? Where does the line between past and future lay?

Right here in the present, he supposed, deciding to move this unwanted jaunt down memory lane right along. After all, it was just a friendly chat between adversaries.

"Sugar, my dear?"

It wasn't the words so much as the tone that got her. When pressing her future ally into taking a meeting with her, this hadn't been exactly what she envisioned. Her plan had mostly consisted of vague and outright threats, with a little interspersed physical violence to show she meant business. It hadn't been a fool-proof plan by any means, but there had been a kind of simplistic elegance to it that she'd liked. Especially since Buffy couldn't imagine any kind of world where she and Ethan Rayne were willing to help each other without stabbing someone in the back, the Slayer had changed, but she didn't think the mage would have.

He had, though. There wasn't a sign around his neck saying 'cosmic intervention changed my life' or anything, yet the lines on his face that came mostly from laughing at other people misfortune were bisected by wrinkles of worry and pain. His shirt was still some kind of linen, and it hung loosely around bony shoulders and a thinner frame. He hadn't been large in Sunnydale, but it wasn't hard to tell that he was a man of indulgences. Wine and candy and all the chaos any a man may need. His normal jovial attitude came harder than it used to and didn't sit nearly as well.

Remembering that time did flow just as fast outside her head as inside, Buffy nodded, allowing Ethan to drop an oversized teaspoon of sugar into her cup in a juvenile expression of displeasure and continue his charade of caring older gentleman. It was a mask as fake and rusted as her simultaneous portrayal of carefree young lady. They sat and sipped overpriced and, in her case, over-sugared coffee, watching and being watched, thinking and being thought of, and committing the evaluation to memory and not paper. On the surface, a useless place in her world, everything was normal, another not-presence to her. Although no conversation was exchanged, the two persons faced each other, postures open and focused. Then, if one had eyes at all, beneath the façade, a less amicable picture emerged. Worn fingers clutched sturdy porcelain and tense hands caressed lacquered surfaces. The tilt of shoulders was a hairsbreadth from antagonistic and smiles were covered smirks and snarls. They didn't bother to lie to each other as well as they could, only maintaining the ruse for any outside observers.

His natural expression was a smirk, the layman's smile blatantly out of place. She wondered if smirking was something taught over in England; most British men she'd met had an uncanny ability to say so much with a casual tilt of lips. Okay, she'd never actually met Draco Malfoy, but Spike had definite smirkage, and sometimes her ex-Watcher's smiles had bordered on sarcastic. But, now wasn't the time to be thinking of them.

The problem they were facing was unstated. How did they move past the history between them, the weight of what-I-had-been, and into the future? Neither was particularly happy with the idea of returning to moors long abandoned for purposes of growth and survival.

Ethan's tone grabbed her attention again. This it sounded closer to his real voice, or as close as either of them could get, anyway.

"It seems I shouldn't believe everything I read in your American tabloids: the widespread belief of your demise of slightly mistaken."

She knew the casual way he'd delivered the line was deliberate, calculated to hurt and anger and evoke a reaction. It was a delicate game that she hadn't known the existence of, let alone how to play, once upon a time. Now, Buffy struck back just as hard.

"This must be the same rag that reported your unprecedented disappearance from the supernatural scene."

Both of them hid the flinches and lingering pain of respective mistakes and experiences.

Ethan spoke first. "Rumors rarely cover the horrible beast known as fact."

"Does this mean we aren't gonna share our feelings?"

"Bite your tongue, impertinent wench."

With his sardonic reply, Buffy knew they'd get along just fine.

"So, tell me what you want from me."

"Let me tell you about the bad guys first. Then, you can guess."

!~!~!~!~!~!

"Alright, a group of socially ostracized loners got together, messed around with power beyond their puny imaginations, somehow succeeded in combining themselves into redundant versions of Siamese twins with shape-shifting abilities and a hive mind, and proceeded to commit murder of 'holy' persons to strip away their goodness and in doing so feed their evil demon master." Ethan quickly summarized.

"No."

"Well, good. For a second there I thought you were going to ask me for a miracle."

"I don't know for sure that the killers are social lepers. It's just a guess based on past precedents." Buffy unhelpfully commented.

"And you don't know who these people were or what demon they may be worshipping or what ritual they're using."

"Uh-huh!" Came the faux perky response.

"You know, I was being generous. Miracle was bit understated. Would you like me to cure world hunger while I'm at it?"

"I didn't know you could do that." The Slayer's innocent and impressed reply was accompanied by the type of saccharine smile that sharks used right before they chomped on someone's favorite appendages.

"Bloody comical."

!~!~!~!~!~!

"Get on."

For a long moment no was reply was heard. "No."

There: simple, concise, and definitive. Buffy shot a pointed look at Ethan as he continued speaking. "Let me be clearer. No, not in any of the nine bloody hells am I riding bitch seat on that death contraption! Janus deliver me from Slayers and their death wishes."

With an exasperated air that only the young can truly project, Buffy paused and then spoke. "You done? Is the performance over?"

An acidic glare was sent her way by the chaos mage, but she didn't let that stop her. "Great! You've already prayed for a safe trip, so hop on!"

An imitation smile stretched stretched across her face in the manner any used car salesman would have been proud of. It stayed there even as Ethan did a quick turn about and called back to her, "This city is teeming with ways to transport oneself. I'll just meet you there."

"Ethan."

Huh, the mage never knew his name could contain an entire sentence. His steps faltered and died out as his leather-clad companion finished her ultimatum. "Get on the bike or I will truss you up like the Thanksgiving turkey you guys don't eat and tie you to it."

The man shuffled and glowered, might even have dragged his feet a little bit, but acquiesced. Somehow even the thought of wrapping himself around young, hot brunette wasn't enough to make this indignity worth it.

!~!~!~!~!

The silence really wasn't pervasive. In NYC, it was hard to find any true silence. There were always the screeches and honks of the eternal traffic, the indistinguishable shouts and nattering of human speech, and the various squawks and chirps and barks of local wildlife and technologies. So, quiet was more relative than absolute. Even in this instance, relative silence wasn't making an appearance.

Don Flack could honestly say he'd never been quiet a day in his life. His mother could, and frequently did in a louder and more irritating tone than her son ever hoped to mimic, backed that statement up. Except for those few times he'd been unconscious, passed out drunk, or near death, then the boyish man had been frighteningly silent. Beyond that, the only other thing that could drive Don Flack to stillness was murderous rage. As his anger increased, the cop spoke less and less, not trusting the words in his mouth and trying to remain in control. This was none of those situations.

This situation was three men in an apartment, each not looking or speaking to the others, waiting for the same woman to show up. Really, it was like asking for trouble, especially when all of them work in law enforcement. Egos and tempers were exacerbated by those nice, shiny badges. These three men were not prone to such behaviors, but some things just bring out the worst in people.

"So, we believe this?"

It was less a question and more a way to get the two clams next to him talking. Flack had taken an awful lot on faith and gut instinct, and if someone didn't come clean and give him more 'Monster's are real, they attacked us, deal with it,' he was going to do something crazy or violent or involving his gun. Or some combination of the three and the only people around to deal with his breakdown, caused just as much by lack of sleep and success and over-stress as debilitating revelations, were two men he cared about and who had had a few shitty days themselves.

"As much as I believe anything I can't quantify."

Mac's reply was about what the detective had expected, saying something while saying nothing. The man obviously didn't want to admit to believing in monsters, but evidence to the contrary wasn't letting him get away with denial. It was times like these when Don remembered how limited the scientists he worked with could be.

"Yes."

Sheldon's whispered answer was something of a shock and not much of a surprise. The doc had always been a little different from the rest of the CSIs, capable of faith when they weren't or willing to entertain more arcane ideas. Something about watching over the dead gave him an insight to the world that the others lacked, and the man wasn't afraid to admit it. When he believed something was wrong or right, there was no question that he would speak up about it. It might have taken awhile for the doctor decide he wasn't crazy, but once he knew it was real, his surety on the matter was certain.

So that left Don Flack in the unenviable position of admitting to himself that he was some kind of loony for believing what Mac, Hawkes, and Buffy had told him without anymore proof than a vague memory of something that might be unexplainable. God, he was getting soft in his old age.

This wasn't the way Buffy had envisioned this going.

It wasn't like she meant to bust into the place, guns blazing, and adrenaline pumping. The Slayer had every intention of calmly knocking on the door, conducting various introductions, and having everything proceed in a somewhat controlled fashion. But no, something had to go wrong. Story of her eff-ing life – this was why she worked alone or with other demons. All those human thoughts and emotions and need for 'rational' explanations did nothing but overly complicate her job. Briefly she considered what it said about her that she preferred interacting with demons over humans. Probably not something she wanted to examine too closely. Musing aside, it had all gone pear-shaped, and Buffy had stopped listening after the men had descended into naming calling and yells that sounded more like cavemen grunts to her super-powered ears.

The first part of her plan had gone off without a hitch. She and Ethan had knocked on the door and been granted permission to enter. Mac had even remembered to be nonverbal about it; her teaching abilities must be getting better or her dire predictions of possible consequences were getting worse. Everyone had stood awkwardly around the living room as Buffy had introduced Ethan as their magical go-to guy. Then Don and Mac had to come out with the tandem responses of: "He's supposed some sort of magician?" and "Looks more like a crook to me." It had all gone to shit from there, Ethan insulting the men's intelligence and lineage while the cops insinuated things like arrest and jail time. Even Sheldon had chimed in once or twice! So, rather than waste her breath trying to intervene or kill of her brain cells listening to the drivel, Buffy had sat down on the couch, kicked her feet up, and tried to take a nap. Hopefully, the bad guys hadn't picked out a new victim yet, and no one would die while they argued amongst themselves.

At some point, a warm body had plopped down beside her. The scent of coffee and cinnamon over powered by the tang of antiseptic and bandages let her know who it was, and she laid her head on the good doctor's shoulder. Maybe they would both feel better after some shut-eye. They remained that way until the blusterings had finally finished and the other men had retreated to their separate corners. No one said anything, but the Slayer could feel their gazes on her. Without opening her eyes, the brunette called them out.

"What? Now you want the opinion of the only person who has a slight clue as what's going on?"

Her flippant attitude really pissed him off. He knew, he knew, she was better than that. Yes, they had wasted time by arguing, but it wasn't his fault the man she had brought to them as their hope of catching the bad guys was a little suspicious. To Mac's finely tuned police sense, Ethan had popped up somewhere in the range of 'flaky rat bastard'. So forgive the cops in the room for being a little less than enthused at the help. That didn't mean that Buffy had to sit in the corner and sulk while the men had gone ten rounds with each other. Finally the testosterone had run out, and the fighting stopped. Now, everyone was waiting for the woman to decide to let them in on the plan.

A few embarrassed and slightly apologetic moments later, Hawkes had bitten the bullet and asked what they were going to do. Buffy had smiled at him, cracked her neck, and opened her eyes.

"Okay. This is the deal. You guys are gonna take Ethan to the most recent crime scene so he can scope out the place. See if there's anything you guys might have missed."

Mac interrupted, thinking she was criticizing them. "I run one of the finest crime labs in the country! My team and I don't miss things!"

A sarcastic look passed over the Slayer's face. "Did you know magic existed before a few hours ago? He isn't going to be looking for the same things you do. We are hoping they left behind some kind of magical residue or trace that will tell us what we are dealing with."

"And then what? Even if you know who, how do you think you're going to find them?"

"I know how to find them. That's the easy part."

Mac snorted. He wasn't used to not calling the shots, and it was grating on him more than he wanted to think. "Then what's the hard part?"

Buffy sighed and shared a look with Ethan. Mac couldn't tell what was in that gaze: sorrow, resignation, or pity. "I told you that magic usually means humans, right? And that it was possible to bind their powers."

After three heads had bobbed at her, she continued. "That would be the plan. For Ethan to figure out what sort of magic they are using and keep them from ever using it again."

"I thought you said that you had to know who you were binding before you did it. You needed DNA, names, and driver's license number or something."

Buffy turned to face Flack, but it was Ethan who replied. "Yes, you do. As my rather simple, if attractive, assistant explained, the less you know about the people in question, the more power it takes to bind them. From what this delightful girl has told me, given the fluctuating nature of our opponents, DNA and any kind of facial recognition is out. That means I will need to be close to these people if I am to do my job."

"I'm no expert, but isn't that kind of dangerous? I mean there are more of them and only one of you. Or is it a quality over quantity sort of thing?"

"Very astute of you, Detective Flack, quality is more important. My abilities are probably greater than all of them combined. However, they have the backing of a rather powerful unknown entity on their side. One that enables them to simultaneously hold a concealment spell over at least Manhattan, if not all of New York City, shape shift, and perform whatever smaller magics they need to go about their days. I would rather not risk engaging them in an all out magic war on the streets of your fair city. Not to mention, I believe Buffy warned about the consequences of such a battle?"

Mac watched as Don interacted with the wizard, warlock, whatever. His friend nodded and called back to the arrogant man. "We definitely ain't sinking this city. I can't swim."

The scientist knew Don was lying, but it gave everyone a chance to laugh instead of yell at each other. That was the kind of thing that made Flack a formidable man in the interrogation room, his ability to make people think he was less intelligent than he really was. After his small chuckle was done, Ethan went on.

"That would be the reason our dear girl came to me. I am not so bold or stupid as to fight these people head on. Nope, we will be doing this the sneaky way, something I excel in. I will carefully conceal myself while Buffy handles the distraction and the leader."

Mac was floored by the callous way the man spoke of putting a person that was supposed to be his friend in harm's way and wasn't shy about his opinion. "You have no problem throwing your friend to the wolves?"

"She is hardly my friend."

"We aren't friends!"

A pair of brown eyes blinked in disbelief at the duo's proclamations. "So what, he was just some random guy you met on the street!"

"Of course not. Ethan and I used to be enemies, a long time ago. So really, that's kinda like friends, right? I can tell you he isn't completely worthless in the magic department."

"Thank you the grudging respect, and really, Taylor, the girl is quite durable."

Buffy's strange defense and Ethan's sardonic response echoed in the head CSI's ears. "I don't know what to do with that information, so I'm going to pretend it never happened."

Steamrolling right along, Mac addressed his other concern. "Why is it Buffy's job to take care of the leader?"

And there went that look again. "Stop doing that and just tell us!"

Both of them whipped their heads around and glared at him. It was Buffy who answered. "The leader will be the conduit to whatever is powering their batteries. Take him or her out of the equation and the rest will be easy pickings."

It was Hawkes' voice that broke the sudden stillness. "When you say take him out…"

Ethan interjected. "She means out of the mortal coil. It's really the only way to deal with this sort of situation."

Mac's hands clenched the sides of the chair he was perched on. Stridently, he barked out, "You're talking about murder."

"Well, yeah, if you wanna be harsh about it." The flippant tone he hated earlier was back, but it didn't match the seriousness and sorrow in her eyes. However, it did serve to aggravate the CSI further.

"It's a public service, really, if that assuages your overactive conscience any." Ethan's intervention, although timely, did nothing to secure anyone's shaky opinion of him.

"You can't just go out and kill someone in cold blood! It's against the law, and I won't let you!"

Why was it that Mac was the only one who had a problem with this plan?

Sheldon had seen the horrifying reality of the situation, of people with magic and no regard for life, and knew that it couldn't keep happening. Besides, you'd be hard pressed to convince the doc that there was anything human left those things anyway. For Don, it was simple. Those bastards hurt his friend, threatened his family, and terrorized his city. They had to pay. If it took a little murder, mayhem, and magical elbow grease to make it happen, so be it. He'd seen worse people get away with worse things.

"Don't you remember what it was like, soldier?"

The form of address had Mac standing up straight and his arms drifting towards his weapon, even as the woman talking to him remained seated. Some things can't be forgotten; like reaching for the piece on your hip and the K-bar knife at your ankle, your nightmares and scars and reactions won't let you.

"Kill or be killed."

It was the kind of obscene whisper that excluded everyone except those it was directed to, that searched every corner and crevasse of your memory to drag forth every wretched recollection it could.

"This isn't war!"

He ignored the question no one had any right to ask him: a Marine, a soldier, a Devil Dog, and the goddamned long arm of freedom's reach. This was nothing life the fetid and bloody jungles of Kuwait and Vietnam or the hot and brutal deserts of the Middle East. It wasn't a cold and deserted beach at Normandy or the frozen and treacherous wastes of Russia or the muggy and secret bay in Cuba. This was America, New York City, and it might be a concrete monster infested with crime, abuse, dirty politics, and poverty, but it was no war.

"Of course it is." Came barreling out of the young woman's mouth. Then, more gently, "Of course it is."

"Everyday, beneath your sane and willful world of humanity, there we are, your thankless warriors fighting for the sheep's right to live just one more day. Battles are fought, some lost and more won, and when we die, there's no one to remember our names. They do not build us monuments and memorials, but we linger in every breath you take."

Her face was old, too old. Too old and too worn to be telling anything other than the truth, Mac stared into her ancient eyes and thought, as she once had, that they were soldier's eyes. That didn't mean he was ready to give in.

"It's war like you've never seen, unending and everlasting, on a scale you can't comprehend, with consequences you can't imagine. It isn't about your platoon, your army, your country. It's about all of life as we know it. It wasn't in any of the famous battles, in any of those historical times, because it is always in all places at all times."

And all of a sudden, for all the strength Mac knew she possessed, and more he didn't, the warrior in front of him was just a woman, just a girl who had to make difficult choices.

"When I fail, you'll never know it. You'll be too busy dying by the hundreds and thousands to care. I don't live like you. I can't. Sometimes I have to do bad things for wicked reasons to save the fucking world. And still, it's never enough for people with the luxury of choice."

Now a little more sympathetic, a little more understanding, Mac was able to gentle his tone. "You say these things, initiates, or whatever, are human. That makes this my jurisdiction. You're not a cop; I am. I want these guys brought in alive!"

Inside her head, Buffy seethed. He thought he had the right! She was a Slayer! Destiny trumped anything he could say. It was her fucking right to defend the humans, and nonviolent demons, of the world by any means necessary! Stopping her rant short, the Slayer wondered if she could sound anymore pompous, even inside her own mind. It was that rueful thought that calmed the Slayer down and prevented her causing massive amounts of damage to a certain stuck-up CSI's person.

Mac needed to get with the program or get the fuck out. They didn't have the option of right and wrong; this was all about survival. Down to the wire and everyone wanted to be the last man standing. He knew it, deep down. He just needed to hurry the hell up and accept it.

A new voice decided to break in, stopping the bitch fest that was coming between the two alpha personalities. "You're not the only cop in the room, Mac. I've been at this just as long as you have, and I know sometimes you've gotta bend a little to get a little. Oh, and also, do you think you could manage to not alienate the only person who can help was put a stop to these murders?"

His words had started out reasonably enough, but towards the end Don's natural tendency for sarcasm had shone through. Way he saw it, they didn't have much choice in the matter, and they were wasting time they didn't have. Don could be patient when he wanted; hours would go by on stake-outs while he waited, like wolves and coyotes, for the sight of his prey and the hunt to come. It was the kind of thing the cop thought he was made for, that elusive chase. Now wasn't the time for patience, it was time to get fucking started. Mac just needed to be convinced of that. "Why can't we bring them in? If you do your voodoo crap and make them all human again, doesn't take mean they're harmless?"

"Well, harmless as a human can get anyway." The amendment to his previous statement brought snorts from various people in the room. As if a human could ever be harmless.

"They'll be less dangerous than they were, true," a British voice answered the detective.

"But the binding," he stressed the correct term, "may only work for the lower level followers. If they have any kind of protection against such things, we'll have to break it. That will require confrontation and probably result in someone's, hopefully the right, or wrong depending on your perspective, someone's death. Cut off the head and the snake dies. On top of that, there's no guarantee that any of them will be in shape to be 'brought in'."

There was a subtle mockery in Ethan's voice that everyone heard, presumably of their willingness to follow the rules. Only Buffy heard the distain behind that, for the men's perceived weak-minded leanings towards conventional morality and their inability to leave it behind to protect the things they cared about. He wasn't willing to die for their morals; hell, he wasn't even willing to die for his own. And her eyes let him know she wasn't either. It was a change from how she'd been before, all soft edges and steel fists. Hard to believe one girl could change so much in a quarter-lifetime, from child to innocent to savior to white hat to gray knight in bloodstained armor. But then, hadn't he? There was no use denying that he wasn't the same sorcerer he had been four years ago. Captivity had given him a hatred and bitterness that his previous mischief-minded, frivolous activities lacked. Ironic that they were both more jaded than they used to be.

Buffy took over the reins from there. "Bindings will put them back in their bodies without their power, but it doesn't heal and doesn't make them forget. If they've subsisted on magic for too long, without food or water, they will have to deal with starvation and dehydration when they return to their bodies. And depending on what kind of havoc they've been up to, sanity and culpability are most certainly going to be in short supply."

Don wondered how Mac was going to take this revelation. "So the bindings might kill them anyway? If that's the case, why do you need to kill the leader?"

"Afraid so. We won't be able to bind anyone until the power supply is cut off, and that means the leader has to go. The rest of them will be up to chance."

"So you're okay with murdering someone?" Mac brought the confrontation straight to the Slayer's door.

"I'm okay with murdering someone who has tortured and killed good people, who has access to the types of magic that could wipe out hundreds more, who has given his body and soul over a malevolent being of some sort. Yeah."

While the CSI chewed on that answer, Sheldon addressed Ethan. "What did she mean about their sanity?"

Despite his dislike of anything to do with law enforcement, the chaos mage could see that there was more to this man than most could discern. The doctor needed to know, to try and understand what had happened to him, prepare himself for the future. "Magic can give you the best kinds of high. It makes you feel invincible, like a god you aren't. So naturally, as with any drug, the crash is a killer."

The medical professional inside Hawkes was intrigued. "Is that what magic is like? A drug addiction?"

"It is if you use it wrong."

"Alright. Alright."

The sound of Mac's tired concession made everyone turn to him. "We'll play it your way."

Although internally thinking something along the lines of 'finally', Buffy was sincere in her reply. "I promise not to cause any harm that isn't necessary to protect everyone."

Wiping a hand over his face, the ex-Marine asked when they wanted to see the crime scene, deliberately not thinking about how he was play off bringing in two obvious civilians.

"As soon as possible, before anymore of the magical residues have a chance to fade. Time sensitivity and degradation aren't limited to the fields of science."

Mac nodded and made to stand up. "Flack, you stay here with Hawkes and try to get some rest. I'll take these two down to the scene and go from there."

Before the strange trio could walk out the door, Don asked Buffy a question that had been bothering him. "How are you going to find them?"

The almost sheepish reply was a deliberate contrast to the steely calculation and fierce protectiveness in her eyes as she gazed upon the oblivious doctor. "They are going come to me. It's just a matter of dangling the right bait."

So, they had a plan and people to put said plan into action. Okay, their people were some nervous newbies, a runaway Slayer, and an escaped chaos mage, but it counted. She had fought with worse for sure. It was all just a matter of angles. All they needed now was some information, a little magic, and some bad guys. Not bad for a high school drop-out running on hardly any sleep and itching for a fight.

!~!~!~!

Something was changing. Someone had come. An interloper was on the horizon. They might be blind, yet still they saw her. She screamed war cries to their senses and shone golden to their dark desires. She thought she could stop them! How foolish, how vain, how disrespectful! They were stronger than any mortal girl, stronger than the stars in the heaven. Their god had demanded it and so they were. She was a problem and would die like all the problems before her. They would swallow her down until she was no more. Not now, no, not until it was right. Soon. Soon.


	8. Chapter 7: The Heroes of Our Time

Chapter 7 – The Heroes of Our Time

Disclaimer: I don't own either of them. Obviously.

AN: RL sucks…. Just saying. The next chapter is finally here, and thanks to Illyriagoddess for pushing me to get on with it. There will be one or two more chapters until this story is finished. I'm very busy this year with school, but if people were nudge me to get moving, that might get these next chapter(s) finished that much quicker.

AN2: To my readers, I thought about holding onto this chapter a little bit longer, because I realized this story only had like 14 reviews. Then I looked at the people that had favorited and those on alert, both author and story, and I decided I couldn't do that. I'm not going to beg for reviews but I like knowing that people appreciate the updates. So, thanks for reading and I hope you like this chapter.

"Bugger."

Buffy so didn't want to hear that. She wanted to hear some overly British version of 'Eureka', smothered in vindicated triumph and cool contempt for lesser magic workers. 'Bugger' wasn't on the itinerary. 'Bugger' hadn't even made the previous rounds. It wasn't the word itself that she had issues with, although, what bugs had to do with anything she hadn't a clue. It was the connotations behind it. 'Bugger' was a British code word for 'oh-crap-the-world-is-about-to-end-and-I-didn't-think-it-was-this-bad'.

She and Ethan's regularly scheduled trip to the latest crime had gone off without a hitch. It hadn't taken much doing to duck under the overly officious yellow tinker tape surrounding the warehouse. They didn't even have to sneak past any policemen! It was all so normal, for committing what Buffy imagined was a felony. Well, it would have been a felony if they weren't in the illustrious company of one Mac Taylor, CSI investigator, ex-Marine - crusader for truth, justice, and the American way – and occasional pain in her arse, go her for the Britishism, leading them hither and fro into the latest nondescript and somewhat condemned-looking building.

The layout was basically the same, circles of bright red wringing the floor, triangles bisecting their perimeters, and incomprehensible squiggles at the edges. At least, that's all Mac Taylor could see. And whatever his science brain told him, Buffy didn't wanna guess at that stuff; the Slayer played to her strengths and the difference between DNA and RNA and Locard's Theory wasn't one of them. Her eyes could see past the obfuscating veil that masked the squiggles for what they were: runes. But she was rather sure Ethan saw even more that she did. Ask her to read the scene of a battle, and Buffy could tell you the make, model, and color of the people fighting. There was a beauty and definition in the broken glass, splintered walls, and drops of blood, all shed and created at the height of fighting, when the battle-blood flows darkest through adrenaline filled veins and breaths come faster for the fear of death and failure and the exhilaration of life and success. But this wasn't a battle or a skirmish or a fight, even a one-sided one, it was a sacrifice, a slaughter, and offering to gods she didn't know or comprehend.

That was why Ethan was needed. The police were completely lost. Buffy had a vague map, but the mage that wandered through the designs on the floor was going to be their guiding light. Even if it wasn't his usual occupation, even if he kicked and screamed and cursed that whole way, Ethan Rayne was going to be a… hero. She'd better not let him know until it over.

The man in question hadn't said a word, until he crouched over one of the ruins, muttering under his breath about having to kneel on the dirty floor like a common magician. Ethan Rayne was anything but _common_, such plebian designations were as far beneath him as the Slayer's real hair color was to the world. He carefully studied the lines on the floor, the direction the rune was written, the precision of the markings. It was often easy to tell how much experience a magic-user had by looking at their circle-casting. Newbies' hands tended to waiver, messy drawings and lopsided circles. Most of the magically inclined folk needed at least a few years to discover the best methods for their personal needs and what they were good at, just like anything else really. To Ethan's highly trained eye, these markings were perfect, impossibly so. There were no breaks or unintended overlapping lines or smudges outside the lines. Physically speaking, that kind of perfection wasn't possible. So, however had done this had used magic to make create their circle. That was a no-no, leading all kinds of messed up summonings and unleashings of bad things when magics cross-contaminated each other. Or, a more chilling thought, was that whoever these wankers were worshipping had manifested the entire thing itself.

The mage stood to his feet, as swiftly as he was able, and as quickly as safety and common sense would allow, Ethan rushed over to the other five points in the circle, taking in the different runes laid out on the ground, including the one at the very center.

Which brought everything back to: "Bugger."

"What? What does that mean?" A put-upon Mac Taylor moved towards the Englishman, while Buffy closed her eyes and looked to the ceiling with a stereotypical 'why me?' expression on her face.

Completely ignoring the CSI, Ethan addressed Buffy. "We've got problems, Slayer."

Buffy's eyes darted open and cut to his in a warning about names best left unspoken. "Explain, please."

The edge of politeness didn't disguise the command in her words. Ethan went on to deliver his bad news. "You see the runes on the floor?"

Before Buffy could respond, Mac interjected. "Like the ancient Norse alphabet, those runes? There's nothing but meaningless scribbles on the floor."

"You less than magically inclined folks, those who don't know about the creatures behind the curtain, wouldn't be able to see them. Nature's little joke, as it were, keeping the blind blinded in hopes the bad things won't be able to see them."

The Slayer jumped back into the conversation, "I see them just fine. It's okay, Mac Taylor. It's normal that you wouldn't be able to see them."

Ethan listed off each rune like they were a death sentence. "Lagu. Berkano. Dagaz. Algiz. All reversed, drawing energy from the one the center: mannaz."

Freezing to near motionlessness, Buffy stared directly into Ethan's eyes. This was Not Good, on an epic scale. "In this context, what do they mean?"

"They were drawn counterclockwise, starting with lagu to the west. Meaning: fear, withering, madness, suicide. Then berkano to the south, meaning: abandonment, deceit. Dagaz to the east, meaning: ending, opposition, sunset. Algiz to the north, meaning: hidden danger, consumption by gods. Finally, in the center is mannaz. Meaning: the Self, mankind, divine structure. Somebody is trying very hard to suck out the life and light of mankind by sacrificing the best and most shining examples of humanity to rebirth their god."

"I'm guessing you don't mean you don't mean the god of kittens and rainbows."

"No, something else, something old, older than the stars, older than this incarnation of the world, something from the before times, a monster that monsters feared."

"Bugger." It didn't sound any better in an American accent.

~!~!~!~

Mac Taylor wasn't a happy man. It had become obvious to him during the course of Buffy and Ethan's discussion, that the pair was crazy. Gods, ancient alphabets, even more ancient monsters, it was insane. He was insane for going along with it. What kind of proof did he really have, beyond his own experiences and Sheldon's discordant ramblings and whatever had Don willing to believe this stuff. Each of them was hardly easy men to fool but it could happen. They had been slipped psychotropic compounds or suggestive narcotics or were just plain naïve. Anything was more plausible than the idea that some kind of hell creature was being summoned to suck the life out of human beings.

"What is this? A Dungeons and Dragons meeting? A discussion of various alternative cooking recipes? No. Just, no. Magic isn't real. I was an idiot for believing any of this in the first place."

Buffy and Ethan looked at each other, knowing the scientist was three microseconds away from rationalizing away his experiences at any cost. It just wouldn't do for their easy access to police files to kick them out.

With a grace that belied this age and past, Ethan Rayne lunged up from where he was crouched on the floor towards the wayward man. He reached out with both arms in a wide gesture.

"Does this look like a game to you?"

Before Mac's eyes, bloody fingerprints appeared on the man's eyelids and in the center of this forehead. His pupils glittered unnaturally bright as his voice sent chills down the hardened veteran's spine. It spoke to him of wickedness and madness, the intoxication of blood that drove people to dance, drink, and do nasty things until they died. It tempted and appalled him, made him want to cover his ears and turn his head. But the words beat at him, beat inside, because, like it or not, part of him belonged to that voice: tiny part, one that drove him past sanity to solve incomprehensible cases or chase heavily armed suspects or shoot an enemy solider in cold blood. Mac Taylor held as much Order as any human could, yet even in the midst of all that rationale and morality, Chaos still held sway. He didn't understand things in such terms, but the Marine knew that Rayne was his opposite, his coin-twin, his mirror-shadow.

Perhaps that was why they didn't get along. Or, as Mac looked into the blood-stained face of Ethan Rayne, it was because he didn't want to look down and see the blood on his own hands.

"Put it away."

Buffy's voice rang into the silence of the building, halting whatever dick-measuring contest that was happening. Warrior or not, she was still a female and couldn't understand men's fascination with trying to show each other up.

"Put it away before you wake anything else up!"

"Else?"

Mac's body swivel to follow the woman's line of sight and nearly passed out.

"I think he sees dead people," Ethan's voice mocked the flabbergasted detective.

"You saw that movie, really? Doesn't seem quite your style," Buffy's tone was somewhere between amused and shocked.

"Can we focus on the GHOST in the room!"

Mac's shrill yell penetrated the light-hearted aura the other two were trying to project.

It was that annoying Brit, Rayne that answered him. "You're wrong on both counts there, mate. This is a warehouse, not a room. And that isn't a ghost."

As the con man sauntered closer to the opaque figure that was _not_ a ghost, Mac only vaguely considered the idea of shooting him. Really, only for a few seconds… a minute at most.

"It's a revenant. Something left over when everything else is taken away from a person. This area is almost a psychic 'cold' spot. Something has been doing a damn good job of covering their tracks. But a revenant is a strictly human phenomenon. It's not a souls or a spirit. Think of it as a… vessel. A vessel for a message or a memory or a warning, it takes something truly… shattering to make one. So, play nice."

Rayne almost sounded like he knew what he was talking about. Mac tried to focus on the translucent body, but his mind had a hard time grasping any distinguishing features. It was as if the face had been worn away, like water eats at rock. The only thing he could say for sure was that the person… thing had been male.

As the trio drew closer, the revenant began to speak.

"I was the first. I was alone. I wanted the world to recognize me, to know my face and revere my name. I don't remember them now. Who was I? I am become…"

The voice changed from empty monotone to a sound like swarming bees, a sharpened buzz cutting deep into the words. Something flooded into the figure, filling it up.

"I become We. We become! We become me! Once there was one, now there are many! We came the same way, called the same name. Unforgettable! Invincible! We are an army in flesh! Talents and memory and potential as one!"

As the voice returned to its original timber, the otherworldly menace quietly faded away.

"I was the first. I called the name and It answered. Then came the others, the We. It takes us and are It. But I was not enough. Those who call are never enough. We are never enough for what It wants. It needs more…"

"I was the first."

There's a flash, a glimpse of a face that Mac presses into his memory. Finally, something for a scientist with a fully equipped, state of the art lab to do! He'd find this guy, whoever he was. This is the first real clue the CSI has gotten and he's going to run away with it, even if he has to drag the entire department with him.

Then, the figure dissolves and only the three beings of flesh are left behind.

~!~!~!~

While Buffy isn't happy with the way things turned out, she has to keep things in perspective. They have time, not a lot, but some. Mr. Marine-Scientist had jetted off in his black suburban to try and put a name to their mystery man, thrilled to have something semi-normal to do.

Someone really should explain to him what a cliché was.

Eh, job for another day.

Now it was just her and her very own conscripted Chaos mage. Ethan hadn't really moved, still standing towards the edge of the circle, staring at the universe, magic, and everything in between. He hadn't said much since Mac had left, preferring to keep whatever theories and thoughts he had to himself.

"We're kind of different, aren't we?"

Buffy asked this question to the seemingly empty air.

"What are you twittering on about over there?"

Ethan's caustic reply did nothing but get her to walk over to him.

"I mean, we _are_ different. As in, not the same, as in, behaving outside our expected parameters, as in…"

"Your point, Slayer. Get to your blood point! I'm standing at the scene of what is probably some kind of apocalyptic ground zero, and I am not in the mood for meditative ramblings!"

That was the thing about Ethan Rayne, Buffy mused to herself. He would gladly see the world turned over, like ants running haphazardly over a destroyed hill, but the mage didn't want to end it. He wasn't above a few murders or accidental killings and a lot of mayhem, but the man lacked the kind of hatred or desperation needed to want to annihilate life as most people knew it. It warmed her long cold heart in some small way.

"It's just… we've both taken the long road to get here. I mean, if certain unlikely things hadn't happened… bad and good things. If I was a little more innocent and naïve, or if you were a little more callous and hell bent on revenge, we wouldn't be here."

Ethan turned to look at the woman in disbelief. "Don't kid yourself, Slayer. If you hadn't kidnapped me, I wouldn't be here. If you hadn't dragged me, kicking and protesting, into this mess of a situation, I would be gladly plotting my revenge on dear old Rupert and his merry band of meatheads."

"Maybe. Maybe, I'd just be hitting the state line between Mississippi and Louisiana, heading for New Orleans and all the voodoo queens I could find. But we aren't."

She took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds. "I had a dream."

"Congratulations, your psyche is still in working condition. You want a medal to go with that?"

Buffy continued as if Ethan had kept his sarcastic witticism to himself. "I had a Slayer dream. I haven't had one of those in years, not since… Sunnydale."

Her tone darkened with the name of her old hometown. Neither one of them held any real fondness for the doomed place, bitter memories and betrayals tainting the few good moments.

Ethan was silent as he pondered the possibilities.

"This whole set-up stinks of destiny and manipulation. I hate being manipulated."

The quiet menace in the mage's voice didn't surprise the Slayer. She understood how lonesome it could be to be guided by some invisible implacable hand that didn't care if you lived, died, or broke into millions of pieces. But for the man before her, it was more than that. He was more than that. As a Chaos mage, Ethan Rayne was the closest thing to unfettered as any human might be. He was ruled by his whims, by his madness, and, occasionally, by his god. Although gods of Chaos tended to be pretty hands off.

Yet here they were, the Slayer and the strongest Chaos mage of a generation side-by-side, waiting for the end to begin.

Then the moment was over, and they were just two people, trying to stem the tide that had been coming for thousands of years.

"Whatever this thing is, that bloke is the key to this whole thing. He was one the to bring it to this dimension, to wake it from its slumber."

"So if we eliminate him, we destroy the whole hydra?"

Catching the glance the man shot her, Buffy exasperatingly replied, "I know things! I read things! The British don't have a monopoly on mythology, buddy!"

"Far be it from me to say anything to the contrary. Still, if Mr. Scientist comes through with a name, we might actually have a chance…. Unless you planned on fighting a shape-shifting monster with the ability to suck the purity and goodness out of people with clouding their thoughts and emotions?"

"I might not have a choice, actually."

The Slayer's voice was steady, but the way she ran her hands over the handles of her weapons belied her slight nervousness. As the woman took in the warehouse, she turned to Ethan, "Maybe this isn't the best place for this discussion."

"What discussion, the how bloody screwed we are conversation? We could do that anywhere."

Darting her eyes to where the revenant had originally appeared, Buffy went on, "I don't want the bad guy to be able to trace us, we might lead him back to the doc."

The mage looked at her in confusion for a second before bowing gracefully. "Then lead the way out, madam."

Buffy glared at the man, but did as requested, taking the man back to her bike and gesturing for him to get on.

Ethan sighed, rather morosely and far too overdramatically.

"None have suffered like I have suffered."

That's exactly what every forty-something year old man thinks when he wraps his arms around a twenty-something woman.

~!~!~!~

Buffy ended up driving the now dynamic duo back to her somewhat shitty hotel room. There were no bugs, no mysterious stains, rooms didn't rent by the half hour, and the manager knew enough to leave her alone. She'd stayed in better and in far worse, especially those first weeks on the road when she hadn't yet developed the sense prolific travelers got about picking decent motels. It was a handy thing.

Ethan, apparently, wasn't bothered anyway, or was too busy being Ethan to comment. He pulled out a chair and threw his legs up on the bed, projecting an aura of nonchalance just to annoy her, Buffy was sure. "So what now, oh mighty Slayer?"

"I have a plan."

"Those four words fill me with an indescribable dread…. Terror, dismay, alarm, fright, horror, anxiety… oh wait, those work."

Buffy smiled tightly. "Ha-bloody-ha. I have a plan. It a really bad plan, actually."

"It requires almost certain death, involving semi-innocent civilians, various nefarious and uncontrollable magics, the destruction of property, and probably murder."

"Our deaths, or someone else's?"

Ethan's priorities were the same as ever. It was almost reassuring.

"More mine than yours, more someone else's than mine, and likely than not everyone dies anyway. Kinda like a Shakespearean tragedy, actually."

Something very much like joy stole over the mage's face. "That sounds like my kind of soiree. And here I was thinking you didn't know how to show a devotee of Chaos a good time."

Nodding in confirmation, Buffy took out her cell phone and moved away to make a call. "Hey, Seth I need a favor…"

"And who told you about Shakespeare?"

~!~!~!~

He had done it.

Mac Taylor had done it. He had probably scared half of the lab into the hiding and the other into an early grave, but he had done it! He had identified their not-a-ghost.

Jacob Bryans had gone missing almost one year ago after leading an almost painfully mundane life. No girlfriend, estranged from his family, mount debts, boring job. That last one was the only reason anyone had noticed the man was gone. Just gone one day, no blood, no signs of a struggle, bank accounts still open with a little money in them. Just… gone away.

Until Mac Taylor had seen him in a ghostly figure at a crime scene and brought his case back to life. If this guy had anything to do with the murders that occurred or the kidnapping and assault of his CSI, Mac would find out. The scientist in him would find out and the solider in him would relay this information to the appropriate sources. Then the man in him would watch as Buffy made sure these animals could never hurt anyone again.

His first call was to Flack, to check on Sheldon and tell him they had a lead. His next was to Buffy, letting her know the guy's name and where he used to live. She seemed a bit pre-occupied and promised him that everything would work out like it should. Her last words scared the crap out of him.

"I want to know that even though sometimes things happen that don't make sense, that seem like they go against everything you know and believe in, it's all for a reason. You've just got to trust the reason."

She paused here a moment before going on, "Trust the reason. Trust me. I'm going to make it all okay again. That's what people like me do."

"Buffy – wait! What?"

The dial tone was loud in his hand, almost startling in its starkness. Mac pressed the 'End' button and set the phone on his desk, resting his head on his hands.

It wasn't five minutes later that the phone rang again and this time there was no confusion. Flack's name flashed across the screen and the weary scientist answered with a tired, "Don?"

"Hawkes is gone."

"What! Not fifteen minutes ago you said he was fine!"

"Mac, he was! I left the room to call a few buddies who would dig up some dirt on your guy. I think I heard the phone ring, and I guess Hawkes picked it up. When I came back, Hawkes was gone, and the front door was shut but unlocked."

The frantic pacing of Mac's heart slowed marginally. He didn't know if he could go through this again. "So no one forced him to leave."

"Not physically, although with the way things have been going lately, I don't know how much of a comfort that is," was Don's sardonic reply. "I don't think he was forced at all, though."

"Why not?"

"Seems like Dr. Hawkes was nice enough to leave a note. It says, 'Don't worry. Everything's going to be okay. That's what people like her do.'"

Mac's blood pressure skyrocketed.

~!~!~

Five Minutes Ago:

Sheldon could tell that they had discovered something. Don had all of a sudden gone tense, like wolf about to chase down its prey, and walked into another room to call some of this cop friends. Sheldon wasn't too upset at being left out of the loop. He didn't know how much help he could be, really. His normally collected and analytical mind was still thrown off by the revelations that shaken his world view. Monsters under the bed, able to reach inside your head and take you away. Monsters making up the world.

His cell phone rang and 'Tiger' ran across his call display. He smiled and picked up.

"Sheldon, I want you to listen to me and think very carefully about what I'm going to ask you to do. I need your help, and I think you need to see this thing put down. It'll be dangerous, but I'll protect you. I'll do my best to make sure you get your life back."

As Buffy spoke to him, Sheldon continued to smile, contemplating how many ways this could go wrong and how right it felt to help this woman. After she finished talking, he finally spoke.

"All you had to do was ask, Slayer. All you ever had to do was ask."


End file.
